Million Miles
by Atlas Lightyear
Summary: When a meteor falls to Earth and Tabitha, dragging her brother Cole along with her, go to investigate it, something happens. Now lost in ME, will they even survive long enough to find each other again? They might. . . .with the help of some new friends.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, there are a few points you might want to know about before you begin reading:**

**FIRST: This will be mainly MOVIEVERSE. I'm giving a fair warning, so, please don't hurt me if I don't describe or mention too many things pertaining to the books.**

**SECOND: I TRY, TRY, TRY as hard as I can to keep ALL characters _in_ character, but if they do seem somewhat or majorly OOC then please let me know in a normal, polite manner. I will edit and re-post if I have to.**

**THIRD: I have no idea if my characters are going to be Mary Sues/Gary Stues or whatever you call a male OC. Mary Sues annoy the hell out of me, but somehow my OCs always end up, even just a little bit, sounding or acting like them. So I'm apologizing firsthand about that. And if it gets to be _that_ bad, please, I'd appreciate if you would tell me so I can try and fix it.**

**FOURTH: This is NOT A LEGOMANCE! Let me repeat that. This is NOT, and I mean _NOT. A. LEGOMANCE!_ 'ahem.' Moving on.**

**FIFTH: This will more than likely be AU-ish. So there's your heads up about that.**

**SIXTH: I'll stop rambling now.**

**XXX**

**-Starts PreFellowship now, then continues through all three movies, to more than likely postRotK (if I can manage it)-**

**DISCLAIMER: Whatever you recognize, I don't own. Both the nameless girl and 'Coal,' though, are purely their own inventions.**

**WARNINGS: TENTH WALKER (I know, I know. . . .);Language, violence, and POSSIBLY slash later on. . . ._much _later on. . . .but I haven't decided yet. It wouldn't be anything extremley graphic, anyways.**

**Oh yeah. Pairings are still up in the air, despite what you may believe when you read.**

**XXX**

**SUMMARY: AUish. Movieverse. Frodo is dreaming of a very strange place. Faramir is haunted by very strange people. A strange meteor falls from the Earthen sky, and now, two siblings find themselves seperated in ME with very different problems. When one finds herself traveling amidst hobbits and rangers, the other is considered a spy by the soliders of Minas Tirith. And even though all they want is to find eachother and get the hell home, fate is cruel and karma is a bitch. Will either of them survive the harsh face of reality? You'll just have to find out. . . .**

**XXX**

**xx 1 xx**

There is silence in the trees. There is silence in the grass. There is silence in the cloudless, endless sky; there is even silence in the wind which whispers by. And all that is lovely, green, and lush, is beautifully silent in its serenity.

For a moment.

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Frodo!"

The boyish hobbit, so absorbed in the thick parchment resting against his drawn knees, with his hand so steady as he presses the ink tip down, stroke after stroke after bold, graceful stroke, that he does not hear the relieved voice of his gardener coming up behind him.

"Mr. Frodo?"

Samwise Gamgee pushes a hand through his tousled, strawberry blonde curls. His face is flushed, crème white sleeves pushed up well past his elbows as he ambles over to the broad trunk of a very tall, very leafy, and very ancient tree.

Where, at the base, his friend sits so immersed in his sketch, dark brows just slightly creased above narrowed, concentrating eyes. Eyes that are much too blue to be considered anything but fantastically surreal.

_Swish, swish, swishing_ through the silvery tresses of grass, Sam then leans up against the rough bark of the tree to peer intently over Frodo's shoulder. His contrasting hazel eyes grow wide with shock.

He might have known the dark haired hobbit was a decent enough artist, but the picture so casually, and yet so elegantly scrawled across the yellowing parchment steals Sam's breath away.

It's an ink sketch of a girl. Not a hobbit. Just. . . .a girl. And a girl Sam doesn't recognize, but can discern almost immediately nonetheless from Frodo's countless, vivid descriptions of her over these last few months.

This girl is sitting on the edge of a wall, her tall and lanky frame stretching out languidly over shadowed bricks. Her shoulders are hunched forward in what could be sadness or simply bad posture; bizarre, baggy breeches and an outlandishly fitted tunic of some sort hang lazily off of her bony limbs. She has a long, rather crooked nose, pronounced cheek bones, and a pair of small, but full, pursed lips. Her hair is just above shoulder length and poorly cut, uneven and choppy in all of the strangest places, hanging jagged in her downcast eyes.

Not exactly beautiful in a. . . .traditional sense. Or any sort of sense at all, (not in Sam's opinion, at least) but there is. . . ._something_, he supposes, as his mouth thins into an inquisitive line. Something _is_ oddly fascinating about her, in something of a very odd manner. Maybe it's just the way in which she is dressed. Since when do girls regularly wear breeches?

"So you're still dreaming of her, then?" Sam muses.

This time Frodo does hear him, and he gives a startled jump as his head jerks back. As if he were just caught doing something he shouldn't be. A guilty flush paints his smooth, ivory skin pink.

"I don't know what it is, Sam." He says unhappily, thick lashes casting even thicker shadows over those troubled blue eyes. "I just can't seem to get her out of my head. She's so confusing, and it's very frustrating that I can't understand her or any aspect of her world at all."

"Hmm. . . ." With a scratch of his curls and a small frown, Sam sits down beside his friend. "It's a funny thing. . . . How you keep having these sorts of dreams. About this strange girl you've never seen in an even stranger land. Have you spoken to Gandalf about them?" He wonders thoughtfully. "I reckon he'd know what they mean, if anybody might."

Frodo slumps in a muted sigh. The quill in his hand hovers there, just above the parchment where he was softening the sharp edges in the girl's jaw. "Yes. I suppose he would." The crease between his brows deepens. "But I would hardly know where to start explaining these dreams to him. I mean, I can barely believe them _myself_." The dark haired Baggins looks to his gardener anxiously. "And there's no doubt that you must think I'm cracking up."

Sam grins, his hazel eyes glinting. "Well, Mr. Frodo, I've thought you were cracking up long before you started telling me about girls speaking queer languages and moving picture boxes and music coming out of tiny little circles that stick in people's ears. . . ."

Frodo can't help but grin back as he begins to carefully, oh-so-lovingly, roll up his finished piece of artwork. "Thank you, Sam." He shakes his head, untidy curls following his every movement. "You always know just the right thing to say to make me feel better." And he gives the blonder hobbit a push in the shoulder before climbing to his feet.

"I do try my best, you know." Comes Sam's easy chuckle. "But, seriously. . . ." Frodo offers him a hand, then pulls him up. They stare at one another for a long moment, under the cool shade of the old and towering tree.

"You should talk to Gandalf." Sam finally nods. His tone and jaw are firmly set. "He'll be here for Bilbo's birthday party, won't he?"

Frodo's gaze grows distant, then. He looks away from Sam and off into the vast green wood behind him, seemingly lost in the far away blossoms of honeysuckle and rose that glow hazy on the horizon.

"He'll be there." The Baggins confirms slowly. "I just. . . . I can't help but. . . ." He sighs audibly this time. "Oh. Never mind. I don't know what I'm saying." Frodo shakes his head again and forces a believable smile. "I'm famished! Let's go and have lunch, shall we?"

Sam blinks. Momentarily taken aback by the swivel in his friend's behavior. "Of course, Mr. Frodo. Lunch sounds wonderful right about now." But he closely notices, as they trudge side-by-side, back towards the comforting and familiar sight of Bag End, a grace of a shadow on Frodo's face.

A funny kind of shadow that maybe, just maybe, stirs with a hint of longing in the depths of his bluer-than-blue eyes. Because as long as he has known and been such a dear friend to Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee has never quite seen him smile in the way he does whenever he mentions that odd girl in his dreams.

And that is incredibly concerning, given the fact that the girl. . . .

"You know. . . ." He begins awkwardly, rubbing the back of his suntanned neck in an uncomfortable gesture. _How can I say this, without angering him so?_ Sam bites the inside of his mouth as his brows worriedly furrow. "You know that she isn't, I mean. . . ."

Frodo glances at him with one of his one eyebrows arched high, so high, it seems to vanish underneath his flop of curls. "What is it, Sam?" Blue eyes too bright and much too innocent, but they appear to be expecting, or, anticipating, even, the reply that sticks inside Sam's throat. . . .

_Oh boy._ Sam struggles to spit it out. He's staring at the ground now and kicking a wayward stone along the roughhewn path, hands shoved in the pockets of his breeches. "She isn't. . . ._real_, you know." He finally mutters. "And I'm only saying this 'cause, from the way you talk about her, I mean- They're just dreams, aren't they?" The rest tumbles right out in a furious, embarrassed rush. Sam bows his head, miserable at having brought it up in the first place.

"I just don't want you to get hurt, is all, Mr. Frodo." He sums up lamely.

Frodo smiles then. A small, sad smile that leaves those blue eyes farther away than ever. He pats his friend's shoulder, but his fingers tighten protectively around the parchment down at his side. "I know, Sam. I know. There's nothing for you to worry about, I promise."

He _doesn't_ know, though. He doesn't know at all. And poor Sam can't help fearing the worst as they descend through the wood, and the grassy hill of Bag End rises into view.

_I've already gone and lost him to a dream, haven't I? Oh, this is not good. Maybe _I_ should be the one to talk with Gandalf when he comes 'round to the Shire. He'll _have_ to know why this is happening to Mr. Frodo. . . .and maybe he can help make those dreams go away._

**XXX**

The gleaming white city shines regal and grand beneath a full, silvery bright moon. The facets of the buildings and homes, so lovely carved into the side of the towering mountain, glow like walls of smooth and flawless diamond inside its protective light, making the breath of the young Captain of Gondor catch in his throat.

It never ceases to astound him. The splendor of his city. And as he leans out into the cool and whispering night air, drinking the magnificent sights in, his feels his heart just might burst between his ribs with so much pride for his family's kingdom. His father's kingdom. His brother's kingdom.

_His_ kingdom.

It almost helps him forget his reasons for wandering outside so late in the evening to begin with. Almost, but not quite. The images are still so fresh and vivid in his mind, seemingly burned onto the insides of his eyelids, because whenever he _does_ lay down and close his eyes. . . .

It's all he can see. And he's still struggling to figure out if this is a good thing, a terrible thing, or a downright peculiar thing. Faramir runs a hand through his gingery brown locks and sighs, enjoying the feel of the wind against his flushed face.

_I only wish to understand _why_ my dreams of late are of nothing but these strange people, and their strange world. . . . Is that too much to ask for? Truly? This is. . . .completely maddening! And who would ever believe me if I were to speak of these absurd matters, anyways?_

The young man shakes his head dispiritingly. _No one. Save for one soul. . . . I suppose. But I wonder. . . .does he _honestly_ believe me? Or does he only humor me with kind words, as he decides whether or not I am still safe to be around?_

Caught up in the worried and restless tangle of his thoughts, he does not hear the boot falls softly _clicking_ up the stone path behind him until the someone speaks.

"I see I'm not the only one having difficulty finding sleep this night." A warm, familiar voices resonates on the air.

Faramir blinks, before casting a look over his shoulder. A tall, broad-shouldered man step out of the shadows, dressed in simple breeches and a loose fitting shirt. Much like what Faramir himself is wearing, though he is smaller and slighter in build than the Steward's favorite son.

The man's hazel-gray eyes are glinting in amusement as he joins the young Captain. "Dear brother, tell me, what has you awake at such a bleak hour?"

Faramir looks away from those intent eyes with a tightening in his throat. He does not speak. He finds the right words, or. . . .any words at all, to describe his feelings, are just beyond his desperate reach.

Boromir nods, as if he understands nevertheless. The humor in his face smoothes into something grave, and he stares out over the silver ocean of grass with his steady gaze unblinking. "I should know by now what disturbs you." He murmurs.

There's a moment of silence, one where Faramir turns back to his older brother with widening eyes.

"Yes, of course I know. Don't look so surprised." Boromir's lips twists up into a gentle smile. "It's that young man in your dreams who is troubling you again, is it not?"

Faramir swallows and gives an anxious, barely perceptible nod. "The girl. . . .he was with that girl again, this time." He admits quietly. And tries to ignore the unpleasantly bitter aftertaste filling his mouth after he says it.

Not to mention the fact that his brother is watching him now. So he feels his face grow warm beneath the inquisitive stare, though Boromir obviously can't read his mind. Or he hopes that he can't, because it does unfairly seem like he can, sometimes. . . .

"Well, perhaps they are friends." Boromir suggests.

Faramir snorts. "Unlikely." Which only conveys the wrong message entirely about this situation, making his face go from merely warm to burning hot as he looks down upon the rooftops of Minas Tirith. "What I mean is, um," He clears his throat. "They seem to be closer to one another than friends. That's all."

Boromir shakes his head and claps his brother on the shoulder reassuringly. "They could be siblings, then. You shouldn't worry so much. They are only dreams, are they not?"

The question echoes around in Faramir's head with an intensity to make his temples pound. _They _are_ only dreams. . . .but. . . . _The young Captain shrugs, as if to react indifferently.

When really, something gives a sharp and painful tug in his chest at the bluntness and. . . .logicality, of Boromir's statement. _If they are only dreams, then why does seeing him with that girl bother me? I certainly don't know either of them, and have no cause to dislike this girl. . . . By the Gods, what in the name of Arda is wrong with me?_

"Sometimes they feel. . . .as if they _could_ be real." Faramir reveals, somewhat embarrassedly. "In a different time, in a very different place. . . .in a whole other world. Perhaps."

Boromir gives him a long and thoughtful look. "Then maybe they are."

Faramir raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. His stomach gives an unpleasant somersault. He _can't_ say anything, because, he can't bring himself. . . .to. . . .

"What I mean is that dreams. . . .they are odd, mercurial things." The elder sibling attempts to explain. "And they usually can be hard to understand; yet often there is more to them than first meets the eye. If you are dreaming of these people in this bizarre land, then there must be a reason for it." Boromir pauses, before shaking his head and chuckling. "I'm sorry. That didn't sound as well as it did it my mind."

But Faramir truly appreciates the gesture. His brother, despite his modesty, has always had a way with language that he himself just doesn't really. . . .possess. At least, not quite on the same magnitude as Boromir does. Charisma, it's called . Or something like that.

"No. I mean, thank you." Faramir manages an awkward smile. "It sounded fine. And maybe. . . .you _are_ right. But then, I couldn't even begin to imagine what they might mean. I've been having these dreams for so long now, I can hardly remember when they started."

"Have you been able to catch a name? Either of the man or the girl, or where they are from?" Boromir wonders. "Because you have mentioned that their language. . . ."

Faramir's smile broadens into something more genuine. "Other than the fact that their language gives me a headache? Well, the girl has only mentioned one word I can grasp in Westron: 'coal.'"

"'Coal?'" Boromir repeats, thoroughly amused.

The young Captain grins. "It's what she calls him, so I gather that must be his name."

"Or a highly unusual pet name."

They share a moment of light laughter. It's overwhelming, how much better Faramir can feel about himself and this predicament after a simple talk with his brother. And it isn't as if he has anyone else to speak with about these matters, anyways. Which he doesn't. "So, you don't think I'm mad?" He asks. It's as if a crushing weight has been pushed off of his chest. The laughter must have helped.

"No, Faramir." Boromir smirks. "Well, no more than anyone else does, I reckon."

"That makes me feel so much better."

Boromir gives his sibling a punch in the arm. "And this is always what I aim to do, brother. Now go and get some sleep, you look utterly exhausted."

Faramir grins dryly, but is quite aware that he has dark circles beneath his eyes. "Your honesty is humbling."

"And you were expecting otherwise?" Boromir feigns a look of shock, which just makes Faramir punch him back as he starts along the stone path to his quarters.

"Goodnight."

"Good _morning, _actually."

And it's true. The blackish tinges of midnight have long since begun to give way to the rosy tendrils of dawn, creeping steadily across the horizon.

Faramir rolls his eyes, but it takes a long while for the satisfied grin to leave his face even after he enters his room. _What was I so upset about? Dreams are dreams. Nothing more._ He shakes his head and chuckles quietly to himself. _Boromir is right: I do worry too much._

**XXX**

**Is it any good? Well, I appreciate whoever stuck through to the end of the chapter, at any rate. 'I' like this story, and I think I've got a pretty decent plot for it, too. Let me know what you think so far; flame if you must, but, really, I'll only ignore you and keep posting anyways.**


	2. Chapter 2

**For the complete lowdown on this fic, and this includes additional notes, the disclaimer, the summary, the warnings, etc, please refer to CH. 1. I don't really feel like typing any of it all out again.**

**Anyhow, here's CH. 2.**

**XXX**

**xx 2 xx**

It almost looks like a shooting star. Almost, but not quite, given that the streak is a brilliant crimson as it blurs through the heavens, falling down, down, downwards toward Earth. And it seems to leave a blazing, fiery trail as it spirals out of control. As if the object itself is a gaping wound of sorts, bleeding profusely into the sky and staining the heavens blood red in its wake.

Tabitha is at a complete loss. She can hardly breathe, and her eye is jammed up so hard against the lens of her telescope that it sends sharp and needling pains into her head every other second. But she doesn't care. This is the most incredible thing she has ever seen in her entire life, and hot damn the hurt is worth it if she is witnessing a meteor hurtling through space _at this very moment_.

"Oh man, oh man oh _man_ oh man!" She mumbles under her breath, feverishly attempting to jot down the coordinates in her star log while keeping at least one eye fixed on the flaming hunk of. . . .whatever it is.

"Cole!" She yells. "Cole-OUCH!" Wincing, she rubs at her eye (which she deftly poked straight into the lens) as she struggles to her feet. Three books on astronomy, a compass, a ruler, four different colored fine point sharpies (green, blue, red, and orange, which is really more like a golden yellow than an actual orange), and her star log tumble noisily to the floor. Pages fly everywhere amidst the clattering objects.

But there is only one thing on Tabitha's mind and she can really care less about anything else. She trips over her feet when she makes a dash to her door, only to have it open two seconds before she grabs the handle. It nearly smacks into her flushed face.

There is a very bewildered looking Cole standing in her doorway, brows arched high enough that they vanish underneath his tidier-than-usual flop of brown hair. "What the hell are you yelling for?" He asks, wary of the near-manic glint in the girl's gaze . "And what's up with your eye? It's all red and watery-"

"Shut up! No time!" Tabitha yelps, waving around only a single sheet of note paper she managed to save before the tornado hit her books.

"We've got to GO, like, NOW!" And she snatches the man's wrist and practically drags him along behind her as she bolts down the hallway, then out the back screen door, into the humid July night.

"Are we chasing after aliens again?" Cole has to shout to make himself heard over the sticky, whipping wind. "Or is it Bigfoot this time? Maybe a leprechaun?"

Tabitha would shoot him a scowl under any normal circumstances, but she's too busy trying not to have her abnormally large feet catch on any stray branches, rocks, or roots on their winding path through the trees. She has enough problems with regular coordination as it is.

So she just settles for a couple of choice swears when an evil stick jabs at her already inflamed eye, and then an aggravated curse on the entire forest in general when she gets scratched in the face by who the hell knows what. "Dammit! Cole, stop being such an ass- this is serious! I think it might be some kind of meteor!"

"What? Really?" He sounds partly shocked and partly impressed, but mostly just exhausted. His breathing is labored and heavy behind Tabitha, and she isn't doing all that great, either. The two aren't quite prone to exercising, so, naturally, a some-odd-yard-sprint through the underbrush at top speed is going to take its toll. And fast.

But she _has_ to get there! According to the rock's decent angle, and how fast its traveling, and the marks on her paper. . . . Or what she could _see_ of the marks on her paper. . . . Squinting, Tabitha tries to decipher the lopsided, excited scrawl of her notes, and then lets out a frustrated groan at the realization that she wrote them all IN THE ORANGE SHARPIE! And ORANGE isn't exactly the easiest color to read in the darkness when you're running through a forest like the world is going to end!

"What's wrong?" Cole pants, gasping between words.

"Everything!" Tabitha can't help but snap back.

Finding this thing is going to be way more difficult than she-

_BOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

It should be considered an explosion the noise is so loud. Deafening. To the point where it's utterly painful. Tabitha makes a grab for her ringing ears, forcing her to let go of Cole's sweaty hand, as the ground gives a shattering tremble beneath her bare feet. Her cut up and aching bare feet that soon crumple under her weight, and she goes sprawling into a nearby bush.

As least she remembers to close her eyes this time.

There are a couple of splitting _CRACKS_ of wood, then more quakes and crashes as some nearby trees collapse in on themselves. Dirt and smoke rises in thick, suffocating plumes, choking the poor girl who's already spitting out chunks of leaves. Tabitha coughs and falls back, onto the clear ground. Out of the bush and into a damp pile of, yep, more leaves.

"Uuuggghhh." She moans. Her eyes are still closed and refusing to open, because even shut they burn from the intensity of the foggy smoke. In fact, _everything_ burns. Her legs feel like burning jelly. Her lungs are burning knives stabbing into her rib cage. Her throat is a burning scrap of sandpaper, so dry and raw it hurts to swallow.

"C-C-Cole. . . ?" She coughs again.

No answer.

On wobbling knees, Tabitha crawls away from the heat of the impact sight, panic a rising, metallic taste in her parched mouth. Or maybe she just bit her lip too hard and that metallic taste dripping off her teeth is blood. Either way, she can feel her heart start racing as the moments tick by, and the god awful sound of silence descends upon the wood. . . .

"Cole! Where are you?" Tears sting her throbbing eyes as her eyelids finally manage to peel themselves back off of her corneas. The world is hazy and dark. Scary. No. . . .

Terrifying. But at least the dirty smoke is drifting away on the breeze. Right? Even if the breeze is hot and uncomfortable and making rivulets of sweat drip down Tabitha's smeared face. . . .and making blurs of blackest, menacing shadow leap and dance just out of the corners of her sight.

Her hands tremble as she pushes herself up onto swaying feet. "Cole! Oh, Cole. . . ." She chokes. _Oh no, oh please, Cole. . . .why won't you answer me? What the hell is _wrong_ with me, anyways? Why did I have to flip out and make him come along? It's just a stupid freakin' space rock! DAMMIT!_

Tabitha searches through darkness for what feels like hours, expanding her radius little by little in the thick growth, until the tears are unknowingly, but steadily, dripping down her dirt-streaked cheeks in despair. Desperation. Ever-mounting alarm.

_The blast can't have thrown him far, right? So where is he? Why won't he. . . .do something? Make a noise? Anything. . . ?_

But she feels it, deep down in her heart, that something is horribly wrong. Cole has never kept her waiting before. He has _always_ been there for her, through the thick and the thin and everything in between in their crazy lives. He does whatever he can to see her and to talk to her when he has to go away for months and months at a time. And if Tabitha is calling and calling for him right now like her very existence depends on the sound of his voice, and he doesn't answer back. . . .

She rubs fiercely at her eyes, but the tears just gather faster and fall that much thicker onto the front of her mangled t-shirt.

"COLE. . . !"

**XXX**

From some yards away, hidden snugly in a dense thicket of vines amidst his three snoring companions, Frodo Baggins awakens with a start. His breath catches anxiously in his throat, and he holds it with increasing fear as his blue eyes dart about their darkened encampment, searching for whatever devilry yanked him from rest.

Not that he was slumbering all that soundly to begin with, anyways. Previous to this awakening, the poor hobbit had been tossing and turning for hours, haunted by nightmares of black riders and glowing red eyes that so deftly chased away sleep. . . .

Wait, what?

Frodo blinks, shocked. But it's true. His dreams are usually so familiar and fast paced, whirling with bold color and fluid motion of that strange girl and her even stranger world. But not this night. The realization of that is, well, a little more than surprising, given that he has been dreaming of this girl every single time he lays down and closes his eyes for months and months.

And he normally dreams of nothing else. But, these riders, these dreadful riders. . . .

The confused and exhausted Baggins sits up on wrinkled, mismatched blankets, running his hands over his face, warm and likely flushed beneath his fingertips.

Then, he hears it. A voice. A girl? Calling out in a bizarre language both rough and harsh to Frodo's ears, which have been so sensitively tuned to even the slightest noise in this chilling and silent wood that the shout seems to pierce straight through to his head.

He doesn't understand what she says, but her tone rises and falls in a clear and frantic manner. Breaking near the end of her plight, which may or may not have been the word 'coal' in crude Common Tongue.

Definitely not a black rider, at least. Which helps relax the muscles that had so fearfully stiffened in the dark haired hobbit. But mingling with the relief in his veins, suspicion stirs. Why is there a girl out wandering in this forest alone? And what sort of language is she speaking? Frodo has never heard it before. . . .

No. He _has_ heard it before! How is this. . . .can it be. . . .truly possible? He's afraid to believe it as he scrambles to his feet, but being careful as to not wake his friends when he trips out of their hiding place.

_I don't understand! The dreams, they aren't real! Even Gandalf said, well. . . . He said to pay attention to them, but gave no explanation as to why I have them or to what they might mean. _Frodo's thoughts race inside his mind nearly as fast as his speeding heart does inside his chest. Moving through the brush slowly, quietly, and carefully as he can manage, he tries to sort through the sudden madness of this entire situation.

_This can't possibly be happening. Have I fallen back asleep? Is this just another dream, where I've gone into her world?_ Somehow, that seems unlikely this time. The Baggins can simply tell, from the cold sweat that coats his palms, to the thick and rubbery feel of his tongue in his mouth that this is utterly, entirely, one hundred percent real.

He pauses at the edge of a clearing, where he can dimly make out a hunched shadow quivering between a tree and a small briar patch. His brows furrow over those fantastic blue eyes, so wide and childlike in his boyish face.

_Oh dear. . . ._ Frodo frowns, taken aback. He can hear her crying now, distressed and heartbreakingly so. But he doesn't move. His feet are firmly glued to the dirt and completely unresponsive.

Because he's terrified. He's nervous and hopeful and terrified beyond all reason as he watches the girl straighten up. Somewhat. Her shoulders are round and still hunched over, but even then her lanky form stretches very tall and thin.

She would tower over Frodo if he were to approach her. And that thought alone discourages the hobbit from leaving his cover.

"And now I can't even find my way home." He hears her mutter to herself, voice thick and hoarse, clumsy with a very unusual accent.

"Why the hell didn't I bring a flashlight? Oh yeah: I'm an idiot. And now I've gone and lost Cole and I don't even _own_ a freakin' cell phone! By the time the police get here. . . ." She coughs and buries her face in her hands.

Frodo's frown deepens bewilderedly. _Hang on. . . .just a moment before I couldn't understand a word of her shouting! Has she known Westron this entire time?_ But. . . .it just doesn't make sense. None of this does. Even if he can understand her _now,_ all of what she just said still leaves the hobbit dumbfounded. _Sell fone? Flash lite? Poe-lease? _

What are these absurd things? Could it be some kind of code? No. . . .

His searching blue orbs catch a glimpse of something glowing dully in her closed fist, though she slips it into the pocket of her breeches before he can make out what it is.

_It _can't_ be code,_ Frodo thinks stubbornly. _I know that voice; I know those hunched shoulders; I know that reluctant and defensive manner in which she carries herself as if I know her personally. She _can't_ work for the Black Riders, because, by all means, she shouldn't even exist!_

He shifts his feet, still deliberating on how he should handle this, when he c_runches_ down on some broken twigs by an accident. Though the sound isn't loud, it might as well be fireworks exploding off in the murky silence. Frodo sees the girl freeze, then turn around towards him, face still shrouded in darkness.

"Cole?" Her voice is tremulous, but underneath it burns with a sudden, fierce surge of relief. "Oh, Cole, you stupid ass. I was so worried when I couldn't find you." She lets out a strangled noise cross between laughter and a fresh burst of sobs as she walks closer to Frodo. "Why didn't you answer me? I've been looking for hours for you. . . ."

And the poor Baggins is so shell-shocked by this unexpected turn of events that he chokes in panic on his next breath. But the girl just sounds so tired, so happy, and in his dreams, he never saw her with any kind of weapon, ever.

Would it be incredibly foolish of him to stay? And what about this 'coal' she keeps mentioning? It seems to not be the actual mineral 'coal,' but the. . . .name of a person? He must be this lost companion of hers.

And the nearer she draws, the clearer her appearance becomes to Frodo, and something like a weight of lead drops into the pit of his stomach as he registers just how miserable and haggard her condition is.

Bits of leaves and broken sticks poke out of her unruly cut of dull, copper red hair, and her skin is ashy with dust and grimy with dirt. A twin path of brightness streaks down opposite sides of her cheeks, an obvious assumption to where her tears had so steadily run, and violent against the blinding smudges are angry red scratches and cuts of dried blood. Her plain colored shirt is blackened with mud and torn in numerous places, as are her bare arms also shallowly sliced like the fabric.

It's so sad to see that the hobbit immediately knows this girl poses no threat to him, or the pulsing artifact safely tucked away in the pocket of his vest. She poses no threat at all.

And she wear no shoes, which Frodo thinks is supposed to be something strange for a Big Person. Not to mention the matter of her breeches, the knees caked with dirt and the cuffs so miserably frayed. This he _knows_ is strange: women are not usually found in breeches no matter which race they belong to.

Then again, as his stunned gaze drifts from her bleeding feet up to her face again, and his eyes trace the crooked curve to her noise, her thin and pronounced cheek bones, and the almond shape of her red, bloodshot eyes . . . .

He knows it is no mistake. This is the girl from his dreams. Standing not two feet away from him. Clearly, _clearly_ real. So. . . .what in the name of the Valar happened to her? How can she even _be_ here, in Middle-earth?

All of these answerless questions are giving Frodo a headache.

"Cole?" She's getting upset again. But this time she sounds angry, not sad. Maybe even a little. . . .unsure. "Cole, stop messing around! I can't believe you'd be such a jerk about this!"

Well. She isn't going away. And the thought of merely returning to his camp without learning her name is something the Baggins can't even begin to contemplate. He _deserves_ to know why this girl has haunted his dreams for so long! And now that this chance is here, within his reaching grasp. . . .

He has to take it. No matter what. _He has to know. _So, with a deep, wavering breath, Frodo squares back his shoulders and steps into sight. "I do not know this 'Coal' you speak of. I have not seen anyone in this wood tonight aside from myself and my friends. And what, may I ask, are _you_ doing out here so late?" He speaks with a confidence he doesn't quite feel, and there's something about the sudden shift in the girl's expression he finds incredibly. . . .unsettling.

Her pale and red-rimmed eyes double in size, and her mouth falls open into a small, round _o_ shape. Muddy and stained hands fidgeting in front of her stop in an instant, then they begin to tremble.

They stare at each other for what must have been eternities, before the girl makes another choking noise in the back of her throat. She shakes her head and takes a step back. Then another. And another. Frodo's brows crease perplexedly, because she actually seems to be _afraid_, and of _him_, no less! The idea is simply ridiculous, when she could simply raise a foot and likely squash him underneath.

"_What the_. . . ?" She whispers hoarsely. "Oh my God. . . .this isn't happening. I must be dead. And that's why I can't hear or see Cole: he's still alive, and I just got too close. . . ." She won't stop shaking her head and, after a moment, she buries her face in those trembling hands again as she backs into a tree.

"I can assure you that you are not dead." Frodo frowns. _Got too close to what, I wonder? Hmm. . . .this is all so very confusing. . . ._

"No, no, I _have_ to be dead!" She argues, the moan muffled against her palms. "There's no other explanation for me being in Middle-earth and talking to _the_ Frodo Baggins, other than that one!"

Frodo's shoulders immediately stiffen up in alarm at the blatant use of his name, _when he never even uttered the title he is _supposed_ to be traveling under!_ How can she possiblyknow who he is? Unless, could it be because, maybe. . . .while he has dreamt of her and her world, she has dreamt of him and his?

And _this_ is how she knows his name?

It makes a surprising amount of sense. More than a lot of other things that have gone on in the last half of an hour, actually.

"I don't understand." Frodo decides to be honest then. He still doesn't feel threatened by her, not exactly. . . .just, cautious. Because if he yells loud enough, he knows that his friends will be up and leaping to his side without a moment's hesitation.

"_You_ don't understand?" The girl drops her hands and gives a long, wearied sigh. "How on earth can you think that _I_ understand any of this insanity? I just wanted to find that fallen meteorite, and now I've lost my brother and gone and landed myself in some fictional world of magic and dragons and hobbits and elves!" She isn't quite shouting again, but a couple of tears do manage to gather in the corners of her eyes before she hastily rubs them away.

"This sucks." She eventually mutters, scowling.

Frodo merely stares at her. Unable to fit these bewildering pieces into any kind of logical puzzle whatsoever.

And that's when Sam starts calling for him.

**XXX**

**Hope whoever reads, enjoys. And please review XD. I'm wondering if I'm keeping the characters in character enough. . . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**Come on, now. I _know_ people are at least checking out this fic, and if you're reading the chapters through, then what's another minute or two to submit some feedback?**

**Here's Ch. 3, and refer to Ch. 1 for all of those other good rambles about disclaimers and whatnot. Enjoy!**

**Oh, and I haven't mentioned this, but everything in **_italics_ **are thoughts by the specified character. If anyone happens to speak any other language than what is primarily being used, I wll bring it to everyone's attention.**

**XXX**

**xx 3 xx**

His ears are still painfully ringing, his eyes still agonizingly searing, when Cole finally finds the strength in his woozy arms to push himself up into something of a sitting position. Aching bones and joints _crack_ stiffly, making him wince.

_Shit. I can't believe the impact radius for that damn meteor was strong enough to not just knock me off my feet, but to knock me the hell out cold, too!_

But as he rubs the back of his neck, and forces his tearing eyes to open, he realizes that most of the smoke has dissipated. And Tabitha is nowhere to be found. A jolt of panic sends adrenaline burning through him as he struggles to stand up. His jaw is tight and clenched, heart pounding fiercely enough to snap his a couple of ribs off of his rib cage.

"Lee? Come on, Lee, where are you?"

_Shit, shit, SHIT! Where the hell is that girl?_

Cole looks all around him, but he can't see anything but shadows and trees and the purple blackness of the sky above. _Oh man, this isn't good. . . . If something happened to her. . . . _His breathing tenses as he starts picking his way through the branches, until something strange catches the corner of his sight.

A little rock. A little hunk of _space rock_, on the ground next to a clump of weeds. And hell, the only reason he can even _see_ the rock, let alone tell that is _has_ to be part of the meteorite, is because of the fact that it's glowing. Just a tiny bit. Like a coal might glow long after the fire has burned out. Something rises in his throat and chokes him up, then, as Cole stares at that little rock.

_She was so excited. She only wanted to. . . . NO! No- what the HELL am I THINKING? Of course Tabitha's okay, of course she's fine! I just have to find her, and when I do. . . ._ Cole kneels down and scoops up the tiny meteorite piece, blinking back the sudden prickling in his sore eyes. It's warm. In his hand. But he thinks nothing of it as he shoves it into a pocket and starts up his search again.

"Lee. . . ? Tabitha?" He yells and yells and curses himself for not grabbing his cell phone off of the table when they bolted outside, because he knows he won't be able to get home until well after sunrise.

It's impossible to even guess where he is, now. But he knows that something _has_ to be wrong when barely twenty minutes later, and still no sign of Tabitha, he stumbles free of the wood and lands on his knees in a vast, blinding ocean of silvery grass. An ocean that stretches and stretches as far as he can shockingly see, until. . . .

"What the fuck?" Cole's mouth drops in astonishment. "You've got to be freakin' kidding me. . . ."

At the edge of the sea, there is a rising mountain. Only, it's not _quite_ like a mountain, but more like a city carved into the _side_ of a mountain, built entirely from gleaming white stone that shimmers as a some kind of surrealist mirage might in the desert.

And Cole isn't in the desert. He's supposed to be in the forest behind his house in Massachusetts, but this sure as hell isn't any place in their Nowheresville town that he has _ever_ seen before! In fact, this looks like one of the places Tabitha is always talking about in the stories she writes.

Fantastic, medieval castles and cities where men ride horses and wear fancy armor and march into violent, endless battles. . . .

Jeez, how hard did Cole hit his head, anyways?

_Maybe I'm dead,_ he thinks numbly, standing back up on his bruised and aching bare feet. _And this is some kind of place where God or whoever. . . .or _whatever,_ judges my life and decides on whether or not I go to heaven or the fields of Elysium or something weird like that._

_But if _I'm_ dead, then. . . ._

Cole scowls, and his hands tighten into fists at his sides. _No. I have to believe that she's alright. _It's impossible for him to fathom Tabitha in any other condition. _She's okay. She got out of the forest. And, if anything, _she_ is looking for _me_ right now. She might have even gotten as far as this crazy stone city._

_She could have even gotten closer._

Taking a deep breath, he sets out across the ocean. The grass is cold and damp beneath his feet. But the feel of it is a blessed relief, after tripping over sharp sticks and stones and brambles and the unforgiving terrain of the wood in general for who knows how long he was in there.

"Tabitha?" Cole tries again, after covering what must have been a mile, maybe. Give or take a couple of yards, and still the mountain city looks no closer than it did at the precipice of the trees.

"LEE?!"

But the plain of grass is so empty that he is sure, if she were anywhere between him and the mountain, he would see her silhouetted against the backdrop: a small and lonely shadow on the white stone.

His shoulders slump, yet he still presses on, exhausted and hungry and hurting and. . . . Fine. He's scared. Terrified, even. For his sister. For himself. For this bizarre, dreamlike situation they've gone and landed themselves in.

Cole has not the faintest idea of how long he has been trudging through this endless field. He keeps looking down at his watch, a wide, silver-faced chunk of metal on his left wrist, but the hands, for some reason, are frozen at 11:19 PM.

He sighs, running a battered hand over his hair. _Could Lee have really made it all the way to that city in the time I spent unconscious? I mean, neither of us are really in that great of shape. . . . Hell, at least _I'm _not,_ he snorts. _But it seems. . . .well, it seems pretty damn impossible to me. Or maybe it's just implausible, because, after this, I don't think there's much of anything, anymore, that I'll find 'impossible.'_

After another good hour. . . .week. . . .or hell, even after another freakin' year or so, the weary young man notices something. Two dark smears are heading directly for him, and they are approaching _fast._ They have to be some kind of marathon runners to be moving that quickly. . . .

Or they have to be on _horseback._ Cole stops walking, too stunned to do much more than gawk with a hanging jaw at the soldiers in their full armored garb and their sleek, muscled steeds, as they dismount not six feet away from him.

_Okay. I don't think anything else can happen that will surprise me now._

"Who are you?" One of the man demands, in rough and booming voice that Cole feels echoing around in the very depths of his soul. He must have a good four inches on Cole in height (which isn't saying much, as he barely tops out at 5'8). "And what are you doing out here, _alone,_ on the Steward Denethor's lands?"

Cole just. . . .well. . . .he just stares.

So the frightening men exchange some kind of secret look, before unsheathing swords in a menacing glint and aiming them at his throat.

_Strike that last thought._

"Speak, spy!" The second man hisses. "Lest I chop out your tongue for your treachery."

_Oh my God they're going to kill me._

"But, wait- hang on," Cole sputters, holding up his hands in a surrendering gesture. "I'm not a spy!" _Who the hell do these guys think they are, anyways?_ The young man gulps when the point of the sword digs ever-so-gently into the soft flesh beneath his chin. The soldiers might be nuts, but their weapons sure as hell are real and Cole definitely doesn't want to try them and end up skewered.

That would be pretty bad.

He grits his teeth, eyes flashing in alarm. "I _swear_ I'm not a spy! Honestly! I've lost my sister, you see, and I thought she might have come this way. . . ." Cole falters.

The first soldier, the one who keeps pressing his sword deeper into the young man's throat, glares. His eyes are narrowed and so dark they appear black in the hazy hours. It's obvious he doesn't believe a word coming out of Cole's mouth.

"Your _sister_, you say?" He sneers. "Is that a signal for your friends to hear? So they can come running in to save your lying head before it's cut from your neck?"

Cole has never been this terrified before. He legs are trembling so badly beneath him that he feels he might just faint. Yeah, so what if he's twenty nine years old and nearly on the verge of collapsing? Isn't _everybody _entitled to feel scared shitless at least _once_ in their lifetime?

"Please, I'm not a spy, I'm really not. . . .please." He begs, fighting back his blurring vision. Then a wave of icy, nauseating dread spills inside his stomach as he imagines how Tabitha might have been treated, if she were caught outside this city, too.

_Oh God tell me she didn't come this way. Please let her still be inside those woods. . . !_

"I didn't mean to trespass on the Steward's lands! I just want to find my sister, her name is Tabitha, and she has red hair and light eyes and she could be hurt-!" Cole pleads.

"Silence!" The second soldier barks, cutting the young man right off. He might be just as intimidating as the first soldier, but there is something flickering unsurely in the depths of his hard gaze. Might it be possible that Cole is, at least, getting through to one of them? Feeling a feeble spark of hope, he turns his desperate blue eyes fully to the second warrior.

"She's all I've got." He admits hoarsely. "I just want to find her and make sure she's okay. If you let me go, I swear I'll never, ever come back here again. _Please. . . ."_

The soldier's own eyes narrow back. And yet. . . .there's that faint flicker again. . . .

"Let you _go?_" The first soldier laughs. The sound is brittle and sharp, like shards of broken glass. It hurts Cole's ears.

"We seem to have stumbled upon a jester, Evra! Perhaps he will make for a decent fool in the Steward's court, hmm? Or, better yet. . . ." The soldier draws the tip of his blade across Cole's throat. "We can just finish you off now and be done with it, spy."

Oh it stings something _awful_, whether the slice is shallow or not (which it gratefully seems to be). Cole is forced to squeeze his eyes shut nevertheless for a moment, to clear the threatening of tears as he feels a faint warmth trickle down his to his collarbone.

"Wait, Hather." The one called Evra lays a gloved hand on his companion's shoulder. "We should not act so hastily. Steward Denethor may wish to question the boy himself, if he is, indeed, a spy." He shoots Cole a daggered look and the young man swallows nervously.

_Well. That's better than being decapitated right here in the middle of this field. Isn't it?_

Hather scoffs. But after a long, painstaking moment, he sheaths his sword and, instead, roughly turns Cole and binds his hands behind his back. "I suppose you are right." He grumbles.

Cole can't help letting out a sigh of relief. The shaking in his legs quells somewhat and, thankfully, he doesn't _quite_ feel like he'll throw up anymore. Or at least not right now.

"But if you say _one word_ before you are so properly addressed by the Steward. . . ." Hather warns viciously, giving Cole a swift knee to the ribs. "May the Gods take pity on your soul."

The poor young man gasps out, tears springing back to his eyes as he doubles over. _Tabitha. . . .please be safe. . . _. He thinks dazedly, before another agonizing blow is delivered to the back of his skull and the world falls away.

**XXX**

**Hope everyone reading is liking the progression so far. Any comments/suggestions/constructive critiques are welcome, please!**


	4. Chapter 4

**XX 4 XX**

So. She isn't dead. She's just in Middle-earth. And not _just_ in Middle-earth, but apparently in Middle-earth during the 3rd Age.

Which means the Second War of the Ring. Which means the forming of the Fellowship. Which means Frodo Baggins, standing in this wooded clearing, not six feet away from her.

Staring.

_Good grief. I feel like a horribly written character in an even worse Lord of the Rings fan fiction. _Tabitha sighs. _And damn are his eyes really,_ really _blue in real life_. _Wait, is this still real life?_

She starts checking herself over, just to be sure. Her feet still hurt. Her legs still ache. She's exhausted to the point of collapsing and burning with ravenous hunger. Not to mention the fact that she's miserable and Cole is gone.

_Yep. This is real life._

Frodo is looking as if he wants to ask her something now, with his dark brows furrowing over those ridiculously blue eyes. Or he probably wants to ask her a lot of some things. Not that she holds it against him.

In fact, with how she's looking and acting right now, if Tabitha were in Frodo's place, she'd be brandishing a stick in her face and threatening to gouge out an eye if she didn't start talking.

But before he can even open his mouth, a very loud and very panicky "MR. FRODO!" suddenly explodes from the trees behind the startled hobbit.

Oh. Right. How could she forget?

A frazzled Samwise Gamgee bursts through the brush and into the scene, closely flanked by two other hobbits. One seems to be the tallest among the four and more strawberry blonde than Sam, with a round nose and a crooked frown. The second is smaller, the youngest definitely, fair skinned and innocent only personified by his wide dark eyes and ringlets of brown curls framing his face.

Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took.

"It's alright, Sam." Frodo turns to assuage his friends with a small smile. A _smile?_ No, he is. Smiling. Kind of. He still looks confused, but his eyes have taken on a shiny hue that Tabitha finds rather peculiar.

"I'm sorry. I just. . . ." Sam flushes furiously and scratches the back of his head. He glances down at his feet. "I woke up and you were just, gone. I didn't know what to think!" He defends.

"We thought that-!" Pippin begins in earnest, but he's silenced by an elbow in the arm so subtly delivered by Merry.

"_Pip!"_ He shoots his cousin a warning look. Then he clears his throat loudly and returns his attention to Frodo, and, more suspiciously, to Tabitha. He arches his brows expectantly. "So. Who's your friend?"

_I guess I deserved that one, _Tabitha thinks unhappily. _I wish there was a way to make this easier._

Frodo gazes back at her, his smile slipping into a bemused, unsure frown. "Well. . . . I think this situation is a little more complicated than that."

Sam lets out a gasp of realization. _"It can't be!" _He whispers. "Mr. Frodo. . . .?" He looks to the Baggins with disbelieving eyes. "She isn't who I'm thinking she is. . . .is she?"

There's a moment of silence in the shadows of the forest. Pippin and Merry exchange puzzled looks, while even Tabitha is taken by surprise by the sudden, dawning recognition in Sam's round face.

_What the hell? _

"Wait. Hold on." Tabitha shakes her head. "Do you guys know me or something?" _And I thought _I _was the one holding all of the cards, here! Jeez, how weird is this?_

"I certainly don't." Merry answers slowly, but now his wary eyes move from the girl, to Sam, and then finally to Frodo. "Would you care to explain, friends?"

Pippin is frowning. The expression makes him look that much more childish than the rest of the group- almost as if he is pouting. "I don't know you, either." He says to Tabitha. "But how would Frodo and Sam? They don't venture out into the Big Folk's world any more than we do, Merry."

Now Sam is looking guilty, and Frodo is. . . ._blushing?_

Tabitha blinks, startled. The dark haired hobbit is definitely turning red; it's noticeable even in the murkiness because his skin is so pale.

_Okay. Didn't see that coming. I have really got to be missing something, here._

"As I said before. . . ." The Baggins mutters at his shifting feet. "It's a little more complicated than that."

"We what's left of the night." Merry points out. "Now that going back to sleep seems to be rather pointless, with morning so close."

Pippin nods firmly. "And I'm hungry," he says, as if this settles the matter entirely.

Another pause. This one a bit less uncomfortable.

"I still have no idea what's going on." Tabitha speaks up, rubbing at her grimy face with her even grimier hands. _What I wouldn't give for a shower right now. . . . _"I mean, we all have the right to be confused, here. In your world, I'm don't exist. And in my world, you guys exist in story books. My brother is missing and you're being followed. Maybe we can help each other out, for the time."

She drops her hands and sighs, then raises her eyebrows at the four pairs of eyes so suddenly and so avidly fixed on her. The hobbits don't even seem to be breathing.

"Oh boy. . . ." Tabitha shakes her head dismally. _Never thought I'd see the day I'd have to explain myself to a bunch of hobbits. _"We can be fair about this, you know." She offers as politely as she can in her downward spiraling mood. "I'll tell you how I get my info and you tell me how you get yours. That way, everyone's happy."

"Sounds good to me." Pippin bobs his curls in agreement. "We can start a fire and make breakfast! . . . .what?" He wonders, when the remaining four merely stare at him. "Sausages and story telling go hand-in-hand- it's practically common knowledge!"

And that is how, a rough twenty minutes later, Tabitha finds herself sitting around a cozily flickering fire roasting sausages with four of the most famous hobbits in Middle-earth. If not _the_ most famous hobbits in Middle-earth.

_This is so freakin' surreal. Man, I can just imagine Miller asking me Monday morning, 'How did you spend your weekend, Tabitha?'_

'_Well, I kind of went makeshift camping with some Lord of the Rings characters. We had sausages and stew and bread and talked about the complete collapse of modern civilization as we know it. How did you spend your weekend, hmm?_

She shakes her head and chuckles to herself. Immediately drawing a spotlight to her position, stooped over on a rock that isn't _quite_ in the hobbits' circle. Because she knows she makes them uncomfortable.

With perhaps the exception of Frodo. Who keeps looking over at her as if to make sure she's still there.

Tabitha has no clue what his deal is.

"Well, you know all of us, now. So tell us _your_ name." Merry begins, poking at some glowing coals with a stick.

"Tabitha." She says automatically. "My name is Tabitha Lee."

"That's strange." Pippin chimes in. And then he smiles in awkward embarrassment. "But, um, it's also kind of nice? Are the sausages done yet, Sam. . . ?"

"A watched sausage never cooks." Sam says stubbornly. He is slowly, with an expert hand, turning a makeshift spit with ten juicy, dripping sausages skewered on it.

_Hot damn I hate to admit, but those look like the tastiest things I have ever seen in my entire life_. Tabitha stares at them longing, her stomach growling to the point of painful.

"And how did you get here, Miss Tabitha?" This time, Sam is the one with the question.

"Nope. My turn." The girl insists. "Just one question; it's only fair."

Sam looks as if he is going to protest, but Frodo rests an assuring hand on his gardener's shoulder. "Come on, Sam." His blue eyes aren't quite pleading, but they are asking for civil cooperation. "Miss Lee makes an honest point."

"Fine." Sam mumbles. "_You_ go, then." The last thing he so obviously _doesn't_ want to do is upset Frodo. And Tabitha would have to back that too, because in the soft, hazy glow of the flames, that blue-eyed hobbit looks just so utterly adorable it nearly breaks her heart.

Sleek, sleep-tousled curls cling round the back of his neck and brush the tops of thick and sweeping black eyelashes. Is it weird that even the slightest movement, like the Baggins merely blinking those lashes over his blue, blue eyes leaves Tabitha oddly fascinated? Captivated?

_Yes. I think that it's very weird. I've got to stop staring, it probably doesn't help my predicament, here._ She shakes her head to clear the lights from her own eyes, then determinedly looks at every other hobbit but Frodo. _What am I doing, again? Oh yeah. . . ._

"Sam's reaction to me. What was all that about?" She frowns.

And not only does she look over at the gardener expectantly, but Pippin and Merry also find interest in this one and gaze at Sam as well.

For a moment, though, Sam merely stares at the browning sausages with his cheeks smoldering pink. He says something under his breath before struggling with the right words.

"I only said that. . . . I mean, you looked familiar, and. . . ."

"You're lying." Tabitha traces her a blackened fingernail in the dirt by her feet. "I _know_ you're lying. You aren't very good at it." She flashes him a brief, small smile.

Sam blushes magenta with a scowl. His eyes dart anxiously to Frodo, who's looking rather nervous now. . . .or maybe the correct term is flustered. Very flustered indeed.

"He's only lying for me." The Baggins hesitantly admits as he shifts in the grass, being quite adamant about not breaking eye contact with the fire. "It's my fault Sam reacted like that when he saw you, Miss Lee. I. . . ." He falters. And the blush makes a reappearance.

Tabitha just watches him with increasing frustration. _Spit it out, Frodo! Come on, it can't be _that _bad!_

"For the last few months, I've been. . . .having these dreams." Frodo finally manages. "About this room with shiny pictures hanging on pale orange walls. . . .pictures of stars and moons and planets." His eyes are glued to the sausages now. Sam is passing them round the circle, but no one's rapt gaze has left the eldest hobbit to even look at the food they are eating.

Well, except for Pippin. But only since he missed his own sausage and bit his finger instead.

"There's a strange device that looks like a metal pole on legs in front of a wide, arched window." Frodo continues, gaining a twinge of courage. "And the window has curtains of twinkling black fabric swishing over books, and books, and books stacked upon books about space, and castles, wizards, and magic. In. . . .in a corner, there is a box. . . .that flashes pictures by so fast, it's almost as if you are watching different changing scenes take place before your very eyes. And there's another box, too, one that plays he most wonderful music if you press just the right buttons on it. . . ." He trails off after looking to his left. At the girl.

All of the color has gone from Tabitha's face.

"I knew it couldn't possibly be a room from this world." Frodo murmurs, flushing badly at her resulting, ashen expression.

"Because I would see a girl in that room from time to time. Talking and acting like no other girl from Arda would. Even her clothes were unfamiliar and odd. I. . . . I told Sam about these dreams. I described the room to him, and the girl. . . . Which is why he acted as he did when he saw you, Miss Lee." The Baggins says this last sentence with a meaningful, unspoken apology in his soft voice.

He's looking over at Tabitha who's looking off into the trees with a very dazed, very blank face. Sam has taken Merry's stick and pokes at the fire rougher than perhaps is needed, and both Pippin and Merry are gawking at the blue-eyed hobbit with their full mouths open.

"Whatdoeshthishmean?" Pippin blurts out through a spray of vegetable stew.

"Nothing. From what I can gather." Frodo replies honestly. "Gandalf didn't even have an answer for me. He just said to pay attention to the dreams, not that the girl and her world in them might actually be _real."_

_This is just way too much. _Frodo Baggins _has been having dreams about _me?_ ME? What the hell? I mean, WHAT THE HELL??!!_

"Miss Lee. . . ?"

Tabitha blinks, stirring from her stupor. "Just call me Tabitha." She mutters. Finding it much too disconcerting, the way the hobbits are all staring at her as if she is some kind of three headed alien.

Okay. Merry and Pippin are sort of staring at her like that. Frodo merely looks concerned. Like maybe he shouldn't have said anything at all.

She exhales out a long and exaggerated sigh. "Smells like conspiracy, to me. And I definitely do _not_ like it. The dreams, the meteor. . . .it's got to be some part of a larger scheme."

Pippin wrinkles his nose up as he gives her a plate of sausages. "What? I don't smell anything but stew, and it smells great!"

She can't help it. Tabitha breaks into her first genuine grin of the night and shakes her head. "Never mind. Man, how come you're so good at that?"

Now the young hobbit looks even more confused. "Good at what? What have I done this time?"

"Stop right there." Sam interrupts. But his lips are twitching into a surprising smile. "You can only have _one_ question, Miss Tabitha. _It's only fair_, right?"

Merry and Pippin laugh. Even Frodo chuckles, and Tabitha finds herself beginning to relax in their pleasant company without realizing it. Her grin broadens as she chows into one of the delicious, perfectly cooked sausages. Golden grease runs down her chin and off of her fingers.

"You are absolutely right, Master Samwise." She whole-heartedly affirms. "It's your turn."

**XXX**

**Ho hum. SOMEBODY must think this story is worth reading, right?**


	5. Chapter 5

**HOORAY! A REVIEWER! Thank you SO much **heaters are necessary**, for your very kind words! I will dedicate this chapter to you (:**

**XX 5 XX**

The knock is sharp, brief, and completely unexpected. He isn't sleeping, but the sudden noise in such complete, echoing silence startles him.

_What could someone possibly want with me before dawn?_ Boromir thinks. His brows crease in irritation as he gets up from his desk and goes to open the door. One of the night guards stands in the dim, shadowed light of the hallway. His skin is rough and suntanned, contrasting impressively with a short cut of corn silk blonde hair and piercing, pale eyes.

"Evra?" Boromir blinks, his own eyes widening in surprise. "Is there something wrong?"

The soldier nods. He looks grave. Graver than usual. Or maybe that's _paler_ than usual, beneath his tan? Well, either way, something seems to be sorely amiss.

"Your father requests your presence immediately." Is all he says to the Gondorian. "It is a matter of great importance; you must come with me."

Baffled, Boromir can only nod as he falls in step behind Evra, not even bothering to put on a robe or his boots for a show of decency. He just pads silently along the cold floors in bare feet, plain breeches, and a loose white shirt. Uncaring about his unfit appearance as the possible reasons for this summoning in the middle of the night whirl round anxiously inside his head.

"Do you. . . .know _why_ my father calls for me?" He decides to ask, after a good measure of tense silence.

"I believe he wishes for your opinion on a sensitive matter. About a certain. . . .prisoner, Hather and I have just captured." Evra replies, and he sounds rather conflicted himself about the issue. There is deep, unsettling confusion in his pale eyes on a subject that is, usually, quite straightforward.

Prisoners are given sentences, and then most are executed the following morning of the ruling. It's a simple, effective process. A process in which Denethor has no problem following without the advice of his sons.

But Boromir can't help brooding over the way Evra said a _certain _prisoner. . . .as if something might be different about this one, compared to the hundreds before, and likely the hundreds more to come.

"What's wrong with 'this one'?" He presses the soldier. A sense of burning curiosity stirs in the pit of his stomach, but Evra dutifully shakes his head.

"I could not say. But he is. . . .strange. The way he is dressed, how he speaks. . . .even his accent," Evra frowns. "It is one I have never heard before."

Boromir's brows arch high over his clear green eyes. _Truly? Then perhaps this is a good thing, that father has asked for me. I would like to see this stranger firsthand._

Evra pushes open two handsomely carved mahogany doors into the Steward's throne room, and the weight of the emotion so thickly congealing in the air kicks Boromir painfully in the chest. He can feel the tension, breathing down the back of his neck like dragon's fire, and he can taste the bitterness of the anxiety, like metal in his mouth as Evra beckons him forward. Oblivious to his sudden, faltering steps and drifting gaze.

"Hather has bound his hands. I do not think he would be so foolish as to try anything."

"Hmm? Oh. Good, good." Boromir murmurs distractedly. Because his eyes are not on the blonde soldier at his side, or his father standing before the throne, or even Hather, who stands over the crumpled shadow on the floor with a sword at its neck.

Boromir walks in from behind the regal throne, its deep, wooden tones glinting dully in the light so weakly cast off of the torches hanging from the vaulted ceiling. But there is enough light to illuminate the three figures on that stretch of stone, and Boromir's eyes are on the huddled form of the prisoner, and on the prisoner alone.

He is. . . .not small, per say, but more on the thinner side, with a set of broad shoulders slumped pitifully forward. Evra was right: the breeches the man wears are of a style Boromir has never seen. A dark blue material stained with mud, the cuffs frayed, and the knees two gaping holes of pale skin, torn and scratched. The man's shirt is loose, simple, dirt-streaked and ripped. Definitely not the shade of white is likely used to be.

But as for the man himself. . . .

Boromir finds his mind going absolutely blank with shock. A beaded chain hangs from his neck, and some strange, silver hunk is attached to his left wrist, matching two silver rings he has looped through each ear. A haunted and ashy face, high, prominent cheekbones bruised with shadows and cuts, and a pair of deep blue eyes stare out at nothing from underneath a messy flop of brown hair. Exhausted and miserable and. . . .frightened.

And yet there is no mistaking him.

_By the Valar. . . !_ Boromir shakes his head in disbelief, eyes warily narrowing. _It surely can't be. . . .that man. . . ._

"My son!" Denethor's voice booms, breaking the Gondorian from his whirlwind of thoughts. "I apologize if my summons woke you, but I have need of your advice on how to treat this. . . ._spy."_ The Steward says the last word with a disgusted sneer twisting his face. "Because he claims to be not only innocent, but not even of Arda herself! What madness do you suppose ails him?"

"I am _not_ mad!" The man interjects, as if every word tires him to get out. His accent is just as strange as this situation; Westron sounds rough and unnatural on his tongue. "There's nothing wrong with _me_, but now I'm pretty sure there's something seriously wrong with all of _you-"_

Hather cuts him off with a swift slap upside the head. "_Watch your mouth, boy!"_ He bares his teeth menacingly, but the man just winces and then, sighs. Apparently used to the repeated punishment he seems to be suffering.

"What have I told you about the Steward?" The cold blooded soldier raises his gloves hand to smack the man again, but Boromir stuns the entire hall (or the whole lot of them, including himself) by closing the gap between himself and Hather in two swift, commanding steps. He grabs the soldier's wrist, eyes steely jade and flickering with anger as they bore into Hather's smoldering amber irises.

"I think that is enough." Boromir says. He might speak softly, but his tone is cold. Dangerous. And no one misses it for even a heartbeat.

Hather glares dagger back, though holding his comments to himself. As he should when in the presence of the Lords of Gondor. After a long, heated moment, he finally backs off and manages a low bow. It comes off more insulting than apologetic.

"Forgive me, sir." He mutters. "I was out of line."

Denethor, though, does not hesitate to round off at his son as the battered man looks up from the floor at Boromir as well, those ultra blue eyes brimming with. . . .hope.

"What is the meaning of this?" Denethor demands. "You cannot honestly believe the lying tongue of a _spy,_ my son!"

With Hather no longer bearing down over him, the man shoulder's straighten out and his chin lifts with rising confidence. He shakes his bound hands, wrists scraped raw and bleeding from how tight the ropes are tied. "I am NOT a SPY for the hundredth time!" He insists frustratingly.

"And if you just _listen_ to me, _please_, I swear on me and my sister's life that we will never trespass on your lands again! Why is everyone so bent on killing each other here-?"

"_Silence!"_ Denethor snarls.

"No, father." Boromir looks back at the Steward, his jaw firm. "I think he deserves to speak, a chance to explain himself. Are we not fair in our treatment of Men? If we stop believing in the good of people, then how are we any better than the spies of the enemy?"

Denethor blinks. Visibly taken aback, not only by the wisdom in what Boromir is saying, but by his own shame. He pauses, sighs, and sinks down into his throne with a tired shake of his head. "You are right. I have judged our prisoner too hastily in the light he was brought to me."

Evra shifts guiltily from his spot at the door. Hather is still too busy sulking to be paying much attention.

Turning his gray eyes to the kneeling man, Denethor lifts his hand in a gesture that means _stand._ The man understands. And he's clearly startled by the sudden change in his fortunes as he struggles to his bare feet, a handful of inches shorter than Boromir assumed he would be.

"Thank you. Um, sir." He says awkwardly. But those black shadowed eyes are on Boromir, not the Steward.

_We'll see. _Boromir muses to himself. _Because if he really _is_ who I think he might just be. . . .then I have no grounds to judge him based on his crime. Perhaps he did not known any better than to wander near Minas Tirith after sundown? I think. . . . I might go and fetch my brother._ As soon as he thinks this, the Gondorian knows this is the best idea.

"What is your name?" Denethor watches the man carefully, his fingers clasped before him as if in prayer. "And where are you from?"

"Cole. Cole Hauser." The man swallows. "I. . . .I have no idea where 'Arda' is, but I'm from America. Massachusetts. A nowhere town called Haven, near the coast. My sister Tabitha and I-" He falters, and Denethor follows his frown towards the door. . . .

The Steward immediately gets up in alarm. "Boromir? Where are you going?"

"To get Faramir." Is Boromir's only, abrupt reply, much to Denethor's bewilderment. And then he is gone and Denethor looks to Evra, brows furrowed.

"Faramir?"

Evra clears his throat. "Your younger son, my Lord."

"I _know_ who Faramir is, I only meant _why_ do we need him here, as well?" The Steward snaps. "By the Valar. . . ."

**XXX**

He's afraid to believe it, to even hope for it, but Cole might, _might_ just have the slimmest of chances at being released from this horrible place with his head still attached to his neck.

_This Boromir guy. . . .damn, without him standing up to his old man, I'd probably be choking in a pool of my own blood right now, courtesy of Neanderthal Hather, there. _He muses grimly._ At least there are some good, _sane_ people here in this insane world. . . . What did they call it? Arda? Huh. Sounds familiar. . . ._

Cole shifts his feet in the thick, unbearable silence. With Boromir gone, no one is talking. And not to agree with Denethor, even if he doesn't seem like that bad of a guy. . . .anymore, but why do they need this Faramir here to help decide on his fate? Cole really doesn't want to wait. Again. His head is ringing. He feels dead on his sore legs. And the only thing he wants to do is good to bed for the next two years and wake up with Tabitha bursting into his room and waving around her star log, yelling about the latest shooting star she named.

_Lee. . . ._ He mourns, bowing his head miserably.

Minutes tick by like small eternities. Breathing is hurting his chest, and Cole, dully looking at the angry red wounds around his wrists, wonders if Hather managed to bruise his ribs when he went on his kicking spree. It definitely feels like he could have. Every inhale sends stabs of pain into his lungs, and every exhale sends those same stabs up into his pounding head.

After a millennia and then some, the doors at the back of the throne room where Evra still dutifully stands open up again. Accompanying the tall, strawberry blonde with his intimidating build is a smaller, slighter man in a similar shirt and breeches with wavy, dark blonde locks, bewildered, bloodshot eyes, and stubble gracing an unshaven and fair skinned face.

"What is the meaning of this, Boromir?" Denethor is up and pacing, clearly disgruntled. . . .

About what? Hmm. . . . Sounds like the Steward has something against his other son. Cole can't imagine playing favorites, if he were to ever have kids. But from the look Denethor throws Faramir, to the way Faramir looks to his older brother in betrayal, there is definitely some serious family issues going on here.

"Yes. Please, explain yourself." Faramir grumbles.

But Boromir is, wait. . . .

Cole stares. Yep, an actual _smile_ is twitching around Boromir's mouth as he and Faramir step up to the throne, beside their father, and his eyes are glinting secretively when they look back at Cole.

"Oh, I think my reasons are quit self-explanatory, actually." He moves aside because, for some reason, he was standing in front of his brother. Shielding him?

_Um. . . .okay, then. This just keeps getting weirder. . . . Should I be worried?_

Cole isn't sure what's going on, and he doesn't like feeling so uncomfortable in the spotlight. A hint of a scowl darkens Faramir's features as his eyes rove the room. And then they come to a dead stop on Cole mere breadths later, doubling in size in pure, honest astonishment.

"Will someone please explain what the DEVIL is going on?" Denethor barks, glaring accusingly at his sons. No, he's glaring accusingly at Faramir, whose unblinking and riveted gaze is making Cole's collar heat up in unsettled embarrassment around his neck.

He drops his own eyes to his muddied feet. _Does that guy know me or something? How the hell _could_ he? _

"Father. . . ." Boromir quickly goes to the throne to calm the furiously steaming Steward, while Faramir. . . .walks as if he's kind of dazed. Walks right up to Cole with his wide eyes narrowing, probing at all of the bruises and injuries that cover the foreigner's arms, neck, and face.

Cole lets him examine his wounds without a word. Mainly because he's a little creeped out and he doesn't want to set anyone off if he talks. It seems to be a common reaction in this world: open his mouth, get a smack over the head. But from the way Faramir's eyes cloud over, when he's finished his observations. . . .

There is anger. There's a hell of a _lot_ of anger. "What have you done to him?" He demands, whirling around with clenched fists.

Evra coughs into his fist and shoots some not-so-subtle looks at Hather. He glares back at the blonde soldier murderously.

"What have _I_ done to him?" Denethor nearly shouts (despite Boromir's attempts to intervene without provoking further). "This is _my_ prisoner, trespassing on _my_ lands without justification! He speaks madness about being from another world and his lost sister, which is likely just code for spies-!"

"I am _not_ a goddamn spy!"

"He _isn't_ a spy!"

Both Faramir and Cole yell back simultaneously. And then they share a startled glance.

The screaming silence this time, that painfully follows their outbursts, is the most god awful sound Cole has ever heard. _Holy shit; is this guy sticking up for me? He. . . .BELIEVES me?! Man, it's got to be too good to be freakin' true._

Boromir clears his throat and lays a hand on one of Denethor's rigid shoulders. "I think what Faramir means to say -and I must agree- is that Mr. Cole is merely a lost, confused, misfortunate man. His story might be strange, but what if it _is_ the truth? Perhaps we do not lock him up. Perhaps we only. . . .keep him here in Minas Tirith for a short while? If he indeed proves himself no spy, then we let him continue on with his quest to find his sister."

Cole's jaw drops. _I can't. . . .these strangers. . . .they're sticking up for me! Shit, this is crazy! I mean, it's awesome, but. . . .wow. _He shakes his head and, for the first time in God knows how long, he allows a sense of relief to flood through his aching bones. And with the relief, comes total, overpowering exhaustion.

Denethor says something then. And Faramir bristles by Cole when he counters back, but the foreigner only hears a _whoosh_ of air in his ears as he wobbles unsteadily. . . .and drops to his knees.

A heady darkness spreads through the room. _I think I am actually going to faint,_ Cole thinks distantly, cradling his head in his hands.

_Huh. Guess this is just a night of firsts. . . . .kidnapping, prison abuse, Stewards and swords and a hell of a lot of pain. . . . Man. _Please_ let me wake up way the fuck away from here._

And the room winks out like a candle, and Cole is left unconscious in one startled young Captain's arms.

**XXX**

**Thanks for reading another installment of MILLION MILES! Hope everyone enjoyed it. Maybe, if I get a few more reviews, I'll update again sooner. . . .**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you and thank you again, **heaters are SO necessary**! I'm glad you like Cole; he's so much fun to write (: And his relationship with Faramir will definitely get interesting as the story progresses!**

**For any additional info on this fic, refer to CH. 1.**

**ENJOY!!**

**XX 6 XX**

It is on one very clear, very bright day in Middle-earth that Tabitha wakes up, and then finds herself traveling alongside a band of friendly hobbits. After a good night's rest, a hearty breakfast of rabbit stew, and then a thorough, decent scrubbing from a nearby stream, the girl feels so much better that even her mood drastically improves.

_Now if I can only find Cole along our way, the world will be alright again._

The hobbits notice a change in her right away. Merry and Pippin are delighted, because all they want to do is ask question after question after inquisitive question about her world and what it's like. And with Tabitha more pleasant to be around than last night, they are unafraid to badger her.

"Was does it look like? Your world?" Pippin wants to know, as they all traipse through a field of dull golden grass, beneath a endlessly stretching sky.

"Well, it sure as hell isn't as nice as this." Tabitha chuckles. "But where I live, there are all of these huge buildings, crowded together in one tiny area. They stretch so tall is almost seems like they can reach the sky."

Pippin tilts his head back and squints up at the twinkling pale heavens wondrously. "That's amazing! Don't you ever get dizzy?"

"Of _course_ she doesn't get dizzy, Pip." Merry reasons. "She can't very well walk around and stare up at the buildings all day- a horse might trample her!"

Sam snorts, and Tabitha exchanges a look with Frodo before the two of them start laughing.

"What?" Merry's brows furrow. "It's true, isn't it?"

Frodo grins, having experienced the bizarre nature of Tabitha's world firsthand. He has seen these strange 'cars' and 'buses' and 'trains' in the moving picture box, back in the girl's room. Her 'television' she so called it yesterday.

"Well. . . .her village doesn't exactly use an equestrian traveling method." He explains lightly.

"You don't use horses?" Pippin is shocked. "Then how do you manage to get from place to place all of the time?"

Tabitha takes a moment to get herself under control. _Okay. Let's see if they believe this, then, _she thinks mischievously. Her expression goes from incredibly amused to stonily serious as she stares back at the youngest hobbit. "We fly." She tells him. Not even blinking.

There is a brief, astonished pause, and then:

"_Really?"_

"That's _incredible!"_

"Is it like magic?"

"Do great feathery wings sprout from your shoulders?"

Frodo shakes his head with a wide smile, his blue eyes shining as Tabitha bursts into laughter again. _Wow, Merry and Pippin really are gullible! HA! But it's just so cute. Were they always this cute in the movies? _

Sam struggles against his own grin on Frodo's left, still slightly wary of this girl and how easily the others have come to trust her in such a short time. But, eventually, he gives up and chuckles himself.

"You know that Miss Tabitha is merely joking, don't you?" He asks of the Took and the Brandybuck. Frodo has told him enough about that Otherworld for him to know that they certainly don't _fly_, even if they don't use horses.

"Aw, you are?" Pippin is crestfallen, and he frowns. "You don't really fly, Tabitha?"

"I knew it was too good to be true." Merry mutters.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't help it." Tabitha grins. "Honestly, we use these kinds of devices that run by themselves- without horses."

"Cars." Frodo nods knowingly.

_Whoa. _Tabitha looks to her right at the Baggins, impressed, and his eyes twinkle back at her coyly.

"You never cease to amaze me, you know that?" Tabitha shakes her head, still having a difficult time wrapping her brain about Frodo and his dreams. _It's kind of weird. . . .having him know so much. Like, _really_ weird. Oh man, is this how _they_ feel about _me_? Because _I_ know so much about _them?_ Huh. Guess I never thought of it that way._

Frodo turns rather red at the comment as Merry and Pippin start bombarding _him_ with the questions next. Tabitha lets her part in the conversation drift into a thoughtful silence. . . .not that it lasts long.

"Can I ask you something, Miss- I mean. . . .Tabitha?" Frodo suddenly speaks up over the bickering of Merry and Pippin and which invention is cooler: the jetliner or the bullet train.

The girl blinks, tearing her gaze away from the glowing orange horizon. "Sure. Ask away." She gives him a glance with raised brows.

"That. . . .pole, I guess, the one at your window?" He wonders. "What is it for? I've seen you looking through it for hours and hours at a time before."

_Hmm. That definitely wasn't what I was expecting._ Tabitha nods, and shoves her hands into her pockets. "It's called a telescope. And it is basically a long pole, or a tube, I guess, with reflective glasses inside it." She says. One of her hands automatically tightens around the warm, rough stone inside her jeans. Her little meteorite.

"I look through one end and, what I see through the other, is any object in the distance magnified to a larger size. It's a lot clearer and easier to study than what you can see just with your own eyes, and it makes looking up into space and researching the stars really fun. Or, I think so." She shrugs self consciously. A heat rushes to her face.

_Because it's not like anyone else thinks that._

"It sounds fascinating." Frodo agrees. He glances at her, those blue eyes ever round and captivated, but quickly looks out over the field seconds later. "Why would anyone not think so? To be able to see the stars, so close. . . . I understand why you would like it so much."

Tabitha arches an eyebrow at the hobbit, idly swiveling the space rock between her fingers. Along the way, somewhere, she and Frodo drifted back from the other three and now walk side-by-side through the grass, far enough behind Merry, Pippin, and Sam where they can't be overheard.

"You understand, huh?" She echoes.

"I believe so." Frodo says slowly. "It is the reason I would use your telescope, at least. It lets you experience a sense of adventure, wandering out into the unknown reaches of the sky. . . .exploring different worlds all in your mind's eye, without ever having to leave the comfort of your home." His mouth quirks into something of a smile, as he gazes out in front of them. Into the expanse of the golden grass and the dark wood and indefinite world, that sprawls out so magnificently before them.

"It's an adventure without the risk and danger involved, all by itself."

_Okay. That is really, _really_ deep._ Tabitha stares at the hobbit in shock. _And I've never really thought about it like that before. I mean, it's a great point, but. . . ._ She finally sighs. The sound draws Frodo's eyes back up to her, and away from his own musings.

"Well, I guess you can look at it that way. . . . But, sometimes, the risk is what makes the adventure worthwhile." She says quietly.

There's a silence between them, then. Not an awkward silence, or one that the either of them feels the need to break. And yet, after while of just being content in each other's company, Frodo. . . .

"I've never been on an adventure before." Frodo murmurs. His brows are creased over his blue orbs, and his lips are thinned. "And, while I'm not sure our journey is an honest adventure. . . .it still has me worried." He admits.

Tabitha watches his hand delve into one of his vest pockets and a sudden, icy cold floods over her.

**Worried, yes. And worry makes the hobbit weak. You can easily overpower him and take the ring for yourself, you know, **a soft, tempting voice slithers around in the girl's head. **None of the others would dare confront you, once you bested their leader. Just do it. Take it- take the ring!**

Horrified, Tabitha shakes her head so hard and fast it makes her temples pound. A wash of bitter, bitter shame fills her mouth as the whisper vanishes, as quickly as it so suddenly came. _I don't think so, buddy,_ she thinks with a stubborn set to her jaw. _I would never take the ring from Frodo, not EVER! SO GET YOUR DAMN VOICE OUT OF MY BRAIN!_

"Tabitha?"

The girl blinks. Frodo is staring at her, and those blue eyes are filled with glinting stars of mounting worry, worry, and more worry. "Are you alright?"

She forces a smile for the Baggins and pats his small shoulder reassuringly. "I'm just a little worried about our journey too, that's all. We can worry together." She jokes.

Frodo's smile is easier, and much more genuine than hers.

They've entered the woods again by now, and the two of them nearly walk past Merry, Pippin, and Sam, who are crouched down off of the path and scrounging around for. . . .

"Mushrooms!" Pippin shouts gleefully. "Look at them all! Boy, what a fine stew this will make for supper tonight."

Tabitha lets the last, lingering remnants of Sauron's voice fade from her thoughts as she goes to stand by the three thrilled hobbits. Their childish pleasure pulls a simple smile to her face.

"There's enough here for breakfast tomorrow, too!" Merry confirms with a broad, happy grin.

_Is it too soon to tell them that I don't like mushrooms?_ Tabitha chuckles to herself. _Actually, they'll probably be excited that they have more to share around._

"Added to the sprigs of wild dandelion roots I found, we'll even have salad to enjoy!" Sam chimes in, and his round face is shining. "You like salad, don't you, Miss Tabitha?" He wonders as he glances up at her.

There were moments earlier when the girl thought Sam didn't like her. Or maybe the more appropriate term was that he didn't _trust_ her. Understandable, but it made her sad to think that one of her favorite hobbits might not ever warm up to her. This looks like it might be changing, though, as Sam stands up and shows her what he's collected. As if it's some sort of peace offering.

"I. . . .I wanted to. . . ." He stammers awkwardly, blushing. "All I'm saying is that, if Mr. Frodo trusts you like he does, well. . . .then so do I. I'm sorry 'bout how I've been acting towards you, Miss Tabitha. You've only been nothing but nice to us."

The girl grins, but has to refrain from ruffling the Gamgee's mop of tangled blonde curls with a lot of difficulty. And that's _a lot_ of difficulty!

It's_ just. . . .so. . . .damn. . . . TEMPTING! Must-resist-!_

"Hey, there's nothing to forgive, you know?" She nods at him. "You had every right to be suspicious; you just wanted to protect your friends. But I'm glad you realize now that, um," she shrugs, "I just need some help. Like you guys."

"And I'll do as much as I can _to_ help." Sam confirms stoutly. "We'll find your brother, Miss Tabitha. I just know we will."

Tabitha feels so touched by the sincerity in Sam's voice that her eyes prickle at the corners. _Aw, come on, Lee! I'm not really going to cry, am I?_ She draws herself up straight and tall, blinking back the threatening tears. "Thank, Sam. I mean it. You have no idea. . . ." She trails off.

A cold, unexpected wind stirs up the leaves along the path. Tabitha looks to the right and notes Frodo standing a ways away, by himself, staring off into the misty shadows of the trees. . . .

_Oh SHIT!_

The wind chills her bare arms and feet through to the very bone as she remembers what is supposed to happen next. And, as she so vividly recalls from the film, Frodo's meager voice barely rises above the whirlwind of rustling branches overhead.

"I think we should get off the road." He says weakly.

"Yeah, guys, we've got to go-" Tabitha turns to get Merry and Pippin, only to be cut off by a very frantic shout: "Get off the road! Now!" Frodo cries, startling the hobbits.

The five of them scramble in panic down the slight, sloping bank at the far side of the path. The four hobbits duck under a fallen mossy log, but Tabitha knows she isn't going to fit in that small space next to them. Her wild eyes dart around until she spots a lump of a boulder growing out of a tangled berry bush, close enough where she might just make it, before the Ringwraith. . . .

_Beggars can't be choosers!_ She thinks, and with a deep gulp of damp air, she throws herself to the cold, hard ground, despite Frodo's whisper of her name- calling her back. _Oh boy, my first taste of the action and I'm scared out of my freakin'_ _mind! Why in the hell do those stupid fan fiction authors write that this sort of thing is FUN?! _The girl draws her knees up to her chest and waves at Frodo with a trembling hand, as if to tell him, 'I'm alright over here. Don't worry about me.'

_Because what is about to happen sure isn't any goddamn fun IF YOU'RE REALLY HERE TO BE A PART OF IT! Man, Cole, you have no idea how badly I wish you were here right now. . . ! _

Frodo keeps watching Tabitha anyways, though, his blue eyes wide and terrified. The sight makes something jolt insider her chest, but she forces herself to stay put and, to more importantly, _stay still._

In fact, it feels as if the whole world stays still in that single moment the _thudding_ of hoof beats pause on the road. Astride a black, wild horse with rolling eyes and froth dripping from its lips is a thin, robed figure garbed in darkness blacker than midnight itself.

Tabitha's blood freezes in her very veins. She can't even breathe as her horrified eyes fix themselves on the wraith. It dismounts from its stomping and snorting stallion and bows low, metal gloved hands grasping the edge of the log four, shaking hobbits are hidden beneath.

It sniffs. As if it can smell the ring. . . .

_No, Frodo, DON'T DO IT!_ Tabitha screams in her head. Her gaze drops from the wraith to the Baggins, with his face shining with sweat in the fading light.

The ring is out. In his hand. Trancelike, his eyes roll up and flicker unsteadily, his finger extending, and Tabitha is on the verge of throwing herself into the open to stop him. Until, at the last moment, she recalls Sam's interference seconds before he pulls Frodo's hand back, frowning at his friend in confused concern.

The Wraith's head suddenly jerks up. In an act of sheer desperation, Merry throws their hard earned mushrooms across the road. Then with a silent flash of shocking, inhuman speed, the wraith darts after the soft _thumps_ of noise, and Frodo slumps forward. The trance broken.

_We have got to get the hell away from here,_ Tabitha thinks bleakly. Her stomach turns, as if she might be sick, but she forces the feelings down as she beckons the hobbits over.

Minutes, hours later. . . .night has fallen. A cold, brutal, completely terrifying night. Tabitha and her four companions slip and slide on the muddy ground, running as fast as they can possibly manage through the thick tangles of branches and briars that scratch them up mercilessly.

"What _was_ that?" Pippin huffs, his voice tremulous and panting.

No one answers him, but Tabitha does flash him whatever she can manage in the way of sympathy, what with her racing heart and faltering breath and flushed, scratched face. A stitch digs deep into her side and she grabs it automatically, icy sweat dripping down her shivering skin.

_So this is how it feels to run with death at your heels. Or maybe not _death_, per say, but definitely a lot of brutal, agonizing pain. And maybe something even worse than death, if it comes to that. . . ._

They stop for a moment of respite, in a grove of clustered, swaying trees. Merry brushes past his inquiring cousin and moves up to Frodo, his eyes narrowed. "That Black Rider was looking for something. . . .or someone. . . ." He trails off. The obvious question goes unasked in the thick and tensed air. "Frodo?"

Sam and Tabitha are looking around nervously, before Sam's petrified eyes land on a dark-clad figure nearly invisible against the purple-black skyline.

"Get down!" He shouts.

Everyone immediately acts on impulse. Five bodies hit the ground and cover their heads. Tabitha, huddled between Merry and Frodo, is sure that none of them are even breathing. Frodo looks over at her, so close that she can differentiate between each and everyone of his sweeping eyelashes.

_Okay. Whoa. _She moves back the instant after the Wraith gallops off, goose bumps prickling uneasily along every patch of skin that had been pressed against the hobbit. Face burning, she helps Pippin up instead as she hears the Baggins draw in shaky breaths.

That more than likely have to do with their situation right now, and nothing else.

"I have to leave the Shire." He finally says. "Sam and I must get to Bree."

Merry stares at him in the darkness, comprehension dawning on his face. He must realize that his friend is in more trouble than he first thought. "Right." He nods firmly and takes the lead. "We'll take the Buckleberry Ferry; follow me!"

"More running. Great." Tabitha sighs, still clutching her side. "I am so not cut out for this. . . ."

The four hobbits and the girl break their cover, and not two seconds after they do so, a Ringwraith bursts through the trees behind them with its madly frothing steed.

"No! There's another one!" Merry yelps, and he cuts through a bush ahead of the others. "Frodo, this way!"

Tabitha trips over her feet as she attempts to keep up. Her thoughts have blanked with fear, and the only thing she is aware of is. . . .the dreadful, brain-piercing shriek of the wraith. Through her TV speakers at home it's unsettling, yeah. . . .but it is _nothing_ compared to the actual sound, which registers on a frequency so painfully high that Tabitha is surprised she can't feel the blood trickling from her shattered eardrums.

_Just keep running, just keep running, just keep running. . . ._ She repeats over and over in hear head. A broken record. Like a mantra, to steady herself. Or at least to steady herself enough where she doesn't fall over and give up under the tensing strain in her calf muscles, which are cramping up on her terribly as she finally clears the wooded forest behind the three stumbling hobbits. . . .

_Wait, three? THREE? Where the hell is Frodo?!_ She thinks in a hot rush of panic. _DAMMIT!_

A darkened wharf looms ahead of them, shrouded in tendrils of white, creeping fog. Beyond that wharf is the glittering, placid safety of the Brandywine River, where a tied wooden ferry bobs gently in a near nonexistent current.

"Sam, get the ropes!" Merry cries, his feet _thumping_ across the wooden planks and almost tripping him up.

Sam practically trips himself as he struggles to unknot the ropes from the dock. Tabitha immediately kneels down to help him when she gets to there, gasping through sharp, knifing stabs between her ribs.

"Go on, I've got it!" She insists.

Sam shoots her a swift, relieved look, and then he bolts for the ferry just when Merry and Pippin collapse onto it themselves.

_Breathe. Breathe. Stop panicking and breathe,_ Tabitha commands herself. But the shrieking of the wraiths is so distractingly close it leaves her fingers clumsy, brain paralyzed with fear. She just can't get the knots undone and she keeps looking over her shoulder into the trees.

_Frodo!_

Relief. Feverish and instantaneous. Seeing him bolt towards her, distraught but unharmed, with the Ringwraith's horse mere breadths away from trampling him underfoot, is like a shot of clarity injected straight into Tabitha's brain. The knots of the rope simply melt away in her hands, and then Merry and Sam are readying the poles to push the ferry off and screaming for Frodo. . . .

"Come on!" The girl yells, her heart frozen somewhere up in her throat. "Come _on,_ Frodo!" She holds out her hand as she back-peddles to the edge of the wharf, watching in horror as three more wraiths materialize out of the gloom behind the lone Baggins.

"Frodo!" Sam shouts in alarm.

His blue eyes are as wide as saucers, dark curls plastered to his forehead with a layer of gleaming sweat. His arms are out and reaching for Tabitha even when he's still yards away from her, but the second his slick fingers brush hers. . . .

Tabitha is closing her hands tightly around Frodo's and then they're leaping over the gap between the dock and the ferry. With dull, painful _thuds,_ they land sideways on the wooden boards. Pippin pulls them up by the scruffs of their collars so they don't tumble out into the water, as Sam and Merry hurriedly push them out of the range of the wharf.

And the four wraiths that have reared up short at the very precipice.

"How far to the nearest crossing?" Frodo gasps out between every slow, agonizing word. His eyes are wild, and his entire small body is shaking so badly that Tabitha can't bear to let his hand go as he presses against her.

Likely unconscious of himself doing so. But, again, Tabitha would never push the hobbit away, not when he is so scared and so vulnerable and so. . . ._so. . . ._

The girl sighs. _Oh, Frodo. It doesn't get any easier from here, believe me._ She wraps and arm around his quaking shoulders to hopefully calm him down.

"The Brandywine bridge is closest." Merry tells them. "It's twenty miles from here."

_Twenty miles. . . .man._

"That's so far away." Pippin murmurs, his legs drawn up to his chest, and he rests his chin on his knees with wide, unseeing eyes.

No one answers him. In fact, the five of them say very, very little to each other for the next couple of murky, drawn-out hours. And maybe that's for the best.

Because Tabitha doesn't mind the silence so much. Not when she knows her new friends are uninjured and safe beside her, and not when, even after miles and miles and miles disappear in the mist behind them, Frodo still keeps her hand warm in his.

_My situation could definitely be a hell of a lot worse than what it is right now, that's for sure,_ she smiles (just a little!) to herself. _I could have ended up in Gondor or something and been taken prisoner as a spy! Man that would have sucked._

**XXX**

**Review? Please? _Pretty_ please??**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you everyone who read and/or reviewed!**

**XX 7 XX**

There's light. A soft, golden light shining through his closed eyelids, making him feel. . . .warm. Safe. Which is weird. . . .isn't it?

_Hmm. . . . I can't remember the couch being this comfy, either, _Cole thinks drowsily. He turns over and gets a face full of cool, gossamer silk. And that sets off the alarms instantly.

He bolts upright, eyes shooting open in panic. . . .just as a swift stab of pain punches him upside the head, and he falls back against that pillow with a groan, hand going straight to his temple.

_Fuckin' OUCH!_ Cole moans again, becoming aware of not only the pounding in his head, but of every little ache, bump, bruise, and stiff muscle in his beaten body. He can feel the rough material of his jeans digging into his skin in all of the wrong places, and his shirt is like a mismatched scrap of threads hanging off of his arms and shoulders.

Not to mention there's a gnawing, ferocious hunger snarling in the pit of his stomach.

_But I'm alive,_ he grimaces, as he tries to sit up again, only much, _much_ slower this time, and a hell of a lot more carefully. _I guess that counts for something. . . . Man this really sucks. . . ._

Yesterday's events whirl round inside his brain in a blur of color, loud voices, and death threats. _Oh yeah. I'm not in Kansas anymore, am I?_

Cole sighs, blue eyes squinting around his quarters as he rubs his head. The room is small and plainly decorated, with matching furniture pieces in a deep, smooth amber wood. A dresser. A wardrobe. Swirling rugs and beige curtains drawn across a wide bay window. Plain, but pretty. In a strange, medieval way.

He pulls off the twisted blankets and gently swings his legs over the side of the bed he was placed in. _And how _did_ I get here, anyways? I just. . . .I was in the throne room, then. . . .huh. _Rubbing his face with his hands, he tries to sort through the mess of information thrown at him from last night.

_This Arda place. . . .apparently I've gone back in time or something, to where there are kings and stewards and lords and castles and no working electricity. I'm being place under. . . .a kind of house arrest by the Steward and his sons themselves until I can prove I'm not here to spy on them. Good freakin' God. . . ._

_How long is _that_ going to take? How the hell am I ever. . . .going to find. . . .Tabitha?_

Cole's shoulders hunch forward. _Maybe I can escape this place, somehow? _But even as that one thought enters his head, he recalls the kindness of the Steward's sons. How they stood up for him, protected him, even, from Hather and Denethor. If he just ran off. . . .that really isn't expressing any sort of the gratitude he feels for what they did.

And they don't deserve that.

As he muses deeply on these things to himself, a soft knock on the door of the room rouses him.

"Uh, come in?" He clears his throat awkwardly. _Maybe I'll just settle for asking where the hell I can get washed up around here. Then, food. _

The door glides open, almost hesitantly. "I haven't. . . .woken you, have I?" The very clear, and very hazel eyes of Faramir meet Cole's gaze anxiously.

"No. I've been up."

Faramir nods. He shifts his feet in the doorway, looking a bit more than uncomfortable. Dressed in simple breeches, a shirt, a length of chain mail, and a leather jerkin, with a pair of thick plated boots and matching arm guards. Cole arches his brows at him.

"You can come in. I mean, this is _your_ home, isn't it?"

"Well, you're entitled to your privacy; I was just passing by. . . .and I understand if you don't wish to speak with me, after the events of last night. . . ." The young Captain takes a reluctant step past the threshold.

Cole stands up to face him on sore legs, running a hand through his hair. He frowns. "Why wouldn't I want to talk to you?" He asks, puzzled. "You and your brother are the only people in this place who have actually taken me seriously, and you have no idea how much I appreciate it. Hell, I thought I was done for! If Boromir hadn't stepped, in. . . ." Cole shakes his head with a grin. "I don't even want to think about where I'd have woken up this morning."

Faramir grins back. The nervous lines creased in his rugged face smooth right out, obviously relieved by the foreigner's honesty. He extends a hand out with his eyes glinting.

"Of course, my brother and I take your story with utmost seriousness, for this is a very serious matter. I am Faramir, for I do not think we were properly introduced prior to this meeting."

Cole grasps the man's hand and gets lost inside his strong and firm grip. A soldier's grip. And the real, genuine warmth in Faramir's eyes is surprising, but reassuring all the same.

"I'm still Cole." He attempts to joke. There's a pause, filled by the fierce growling of his stomach.

Faramir chuckles. "I was going to ask if you would like me to show you around Minas Tirith, but perhaps you would prefer a wash and a hot meal, first? I apologize for not offering sooner."

"Hey, it's no big deal. It sounds great, all of the above. And if you could show me around sometime later, I'd really like that." Cole nods. _Besides, if I can learn as much as I can about this place, maybe I can figure out just why in the hell it seems so familiar! _

"It would be my pleasure." Faramir beams at him. "The wash room is this way. . . . I'll make sure to have someone fetch you a clean change of clothes, as well."

So Cole follows the Captain down the hall with a slow smile spreading across his face. _Damn. Maybe my luck really is changing. Well, guess you gotta take the good with the bad, huh?_

Approximately fifteen minutes later, judging by his broken and unmoving watch, Cole is stepping out of a cool bath that has left the porcelain ringed black with dirt and grime. The water, even blacker.

But he's _clean_, had a decent night's sleep, and despite the soreness and the bruises scattered over his fair skin, he looks a great deal better than he did yesterday.

Combing fingers through his dripping hair, he picks up the garments left behind for him to undoubtedly change in to. With mourning eyes, he gazes at the crumpled heap of his jeans and t-shirt on the stone floor by his feet. The only remaining, _familiar_ items he still has in this unfamiliar world. . . .besides his watch, of course.

Which Cole dares not to part with, despite its uselessness.

_Guess there's no looking back now,_ he sighs. And he shakes his head as he pulls on a pair of faded brown breeches (slipping the little chunk of meteorite in the one small pocket), a loose, long sleeved tunic-thing in a shade of wine, and then a dark vest to wear buttoned up over it. A belt loops snugly through the waistband of the pants, before he finally laces up some worn leather boots.

The clothes feel strange against his body. He pulls at the collar, leaves the first few buttons of the tunic shirt open, and rolls up his sleeves. It doesn't really help, but, at least the fabric seems less. . . .restraining.

_This is so fucking weird, I can't even begin to explain it;_ the foreigner studies his reflection in the nearby glass of a window with a blanch of discomfort. He barely recognizes the stranger staring back at him. Blue eyes wide and blackened with shadows. Flop of curls crudely arranged across his forehead. A bruise over his right brow, a split through his bottom lip, and a various assortment of scrapes and cuts nearly everywhere else.

The Cole in the glass looks young. . . .scared. Overwhelmed. That Cole looks nothing like the one he remembers being the day before.

_Oh boy. Lee would lose it if she could see me now._

But enough wallowing in his own dramatic angst. If he is to survive this world and find his sister, he sure can't spend his free time feeling sorry for himself. So, taking a deep, deep breath_, _and squaring back his shoulders, Cole leaves the room and wanders out into the wide, open hall.

Sunlight spills in through arched windows and casts hazy patterns on the gleaming, polished stones. For a castle. . . .city. . . .thing, this place really is kind of. . . .beautiful. Cole has never seen anything like it before- at least not in reality or outside of movies.

_Wait a minute. . . ._ He frowns, walking over to the closet window, where he has the most splendid view of the shining white slope of the city. The grass that shined so silver last night is now awash in dull gold beneath the pearly gray sky, and then the thick cluster of trees beyond: so dark, so foreboding. The entire scene strikes such a note of de ja vu with Cole that he grinds his teeth in frustration, knocking a fist into the glass.

_How can I possible have seen this place before?_

"Mr. Hauser?"

Cole blinks, startled by such a use of formality. He turns to see a tall, broad shouldered solider with a tanned face, pale hair, and even paler eyes approaching him.

"Oh. . . .Evra!" Cole snaps his fingers. "That's your name, isn't it?"

The solider nods, a tad sheepishly. "Indeed it is. And I must apologize, on behalf of myself and Hather's behavior-"

"No. Relax." Cole shakes his head and smiles. "I know you were only doing your job, right? Besides, he didn't break anything. And if you hadn't convinced him to take me here, I'd be lying out in that field with no head right now."

"Yes, I know. . . ." Evra sighs. His eyes are roaming over all of the prominent injuries on the foreigner, and then his head bows forward in shame. "But still. We soldiers of Gondor have not always been as ruthless as this. With these darkening times, we must take no chances with the souls who happen across our lands. You did not have the look of a spy, and as such, we should have treated you, at the very least, with a sense of decency as a fellow man when we took you in. And for this, I am truly sorry."

His words, his apology, everything about the sudden manner of this muscled and intimidating solider is absolutely humbling. Cole finds that even standing in the presence of a man who can freely admit his mistakes incredibly admiring, and he is just so _shocked_ by Evra's sentiment that he's honestly struck speechless for a few moments.

_That was. . . .a little unexpected. And I sure as hell haven't done anything to earn _that_ kind of respect!_

"Do you. . . .not forgive me?" Evra finally wonders, his brows furrowing while the silence stretches. "I would understand if you decide not to-"

Cole opens his mouth, pauses, closes it, shakes his head, then opens it again with a smile. "There's nothing to forgive, pal." He claps Evra on the shoulder reassuringly. "You're a good guy who wants to protect his Steward, that's all."

Evra's eyes crinkle up in a smile back, though the expression stays off of his lips. "You speak so strangely, Mr. Hauser. Perhaps it is true, then: you _are_ from a different world. What is this 'pal' you mention?"

"First, don't call me that. It's just Cole, because, well, I think we're friends." Cole grins. "And that's just what a pal is. Or a buddy. Or dude, but I would never call you that."

As they set off down the hallway together, Evra's brows crease further over his light gaze. Struggling to make sense of the foreigner's peculiar nature. "So. . . .pal, is a word for friend, where you come from?"

"Yeah! There you go." Cole nods. "It means just that."

"Then I am honored to be considered your pal." Evra sets his jaw firmly. "For you are mine as well."

_Man. Maybe I can get this guy to lighten up a little bit._ Cole's grin twists wryly. _Sure seems like he could use some laughter in his bleak life._

"Great! So. Where can we get some food around here?"

Evra beckons him through a vast, open courtyard of vibrant green grass, and they traipse along a path lined with an impressive array of small and colorful wildflowers. The simple beauty of the gardens is just awe-inspiring. Cole tries to drink everything he possibly can in as they go.

"I am leading you to the dining hall now. Lord Denethor's sons wish for your company while they take their meals." The soldier tells him lightly.

"And what about you?" Cole wonders. "Aren't you joining us, too?"

"It is not my place to dine with the Lords of Gondor and their chosen guests." Evra murmurs, casting his eyes away. "I must return to my post at the gates."

_That kind of sucks_, Cole thinks, disappointed. "Oh. Well, then maybe I'll see you later? Faramir was going to give me a tour of. . . .um, this place. . . ." _What did he call the city again? Mini. . . .something?_ "So we can catch up later?"

"Catch. . . .up?" Evra muses. "Is this more odd phrasing from your world?"

"It means 'meet up,' in a manner of speaking." Cole explains. "Like, I hope we can meet up after the tour." He eyes the blonde's sword belted in at his hip with, likely, ill-fated interest. And the motion is not missed on Evra, whose scarred and rugged face brightens with amusement.

"You have the fingers and the voice for music, Mr. Cole. Not for weapons and battle."

Cole stares at the soldier, taken aback by the bluntness of his statement. _Whoa. How did he know, about the music? It can't be _that_ obvious, can it?_ He shakes his head. "Well, how will we ever know if you won't let me try?"

This time Evra does manage a bit of a smile, as he opens up yet another door in this endless maze for the smaller man. This one leads into a long and glimmering hall with a broad, dark wood table, heaped with near feast proportions of food on top. "It is up to the Lords to decide your fate. If they allow it, I would of course try my best to show you the ways of the blade. Have you never attempted your hand at it before?"

"Um. . . .sword fighting isn't exactly a practice still in use, in my world." Cole admits, distracted by the glorious, glorious sight of fruits and stews and dishes and their millions of colors in front of him.

"This is strange." Evra ponders. "No swords? None at all? Hmm. . . . You will have to tell me of your unusual warfare strategies later, then. I would very much like to learn of them."

"Sure." Cole shrugs.

Evra nods, a pleased curve to his mouth. "This is where I bid you good day, Mr. Cole. I have much enjoyed your company."

Cole rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing awkwardly. "Okay. Uh, good day to you, too. And thanks. For, you know. . . ."

But the soldier doesn't reply. He just gives another, small nod to the man, and then turns and leaves the hall. At least leaving Cole feeling much, much better about being stranded in this land.

Because he isn't. . . .quite so alone anymore.

He moves to shove his hands in his pockets, then, realizing his breeches don't have any but that tiny one where the meteorite fragment is, his good mood deflates and he scowls. _That's going to get really annoying._ _And what am I supposed to do now, anyways? This hall is empty, and I'd hate to sit down and start stuffing my face without being invited. I might get a finger chopped off or something._

Cole looks around hopefully. The pangs in his stomach are nearing unbearable, and those glistening red apples are way too damn tempting.

"Good morning, Mr. Hauser."

_Okay. That's going to get kind of annoying, too._

The foreigner turns his head to see the broad shouldered form and strawberry blonde locks of Boromir, entering the hall through a different doorway. Dressed in a similar manner to him and Faramir, only. . . .he can really pull it off. For a lack of a better description. The mere strides in which he takes to walk over to Cole command power, respect, and confidence.

He just _looks_ the role of royalty, whereas Faramir, well, he still resembles royalty, but in a more refined and. . . .er. . . .sensitive manner, than the obvious, masculine way of his elder brother.

"Morning. . . .sir." Cole thankfully remembers to add. _Right. He's a Lord. And you call Lords 'sir,' don't you? Shit; I am just glad this guy is, for the most part, on _my_ side. _"And, you don't have to call me 'Mr.' Actually, I'd rather you didn't. Please. Sir."

_I sound like an ass._

Boromir grins. "As you wish, Cole. And speak as if you normally would. If you insist on informalities, then I must as well."

"Oh. Okay." Cole grins easily back. _Fair enough._

"Please, help yourself." Boromir sits to the left of the end chair at the table. "I daresay my brother and I won't be able to finish all of this off ourselves!"

"Where is Faramir, anyway?" Cole wonders, taking the chair opposite Boromir. It's hard and uncomfortable, but he's too hungry to notice as he begins piling everything within reach onto a plate. The Gondorian watches on in amusement.

"I gather he should be along shortly."

Cole can only nod without being rude, having already shoveled a handful of fresh blueberries into his mouth. He swallows, embarrassed, as Boromir chuckles.

_Yes. I'm a pig. Especially when my last meal was eaten more than a day ago. That's something I just can't help._

"If you don't mind. . . ." He begins slowly, and picks up a fork. "Can I ask you some questions, while we wait for him?"

Boromir chews into a slice of bread and jam thoughtfully. "I think you have earned that right, if you are who my brother so convincingly believes you to be. But only if I may ask some in return."

_Hang on. _"What?" Cole blinks. "Who does your brother think I am? And what does that matter?"

"Those questions, I think, should be answered by Faramir." Boromir tells the foreigner evenly. "It is not my place to speak of those matters."

_Uh. . . .okay. _Confused, Cole manages to munch into various samples of fancy meat dishes without, fortunately, choking himself on them. _Is that why Faramir was looking at me so funny last night? Because he thought he knew me from somewhere? Hmm. . . ._

"Alright. Then, first things first: where I am?" _Or maybe the more obvious thing to ask is _when_ the hell am I?_ Cole dryly thinks.

Boromir arches an eyebrow in surprise. "Why, you are in Minas Tirith, of course; the City of Kings; the great jewel of Gondor herself."

"And. . . . .where is Gondor, exactly? I remember Den- er, _Lord_ Denethor saying something about 'Arda' last night." Cole frowns. "Is Arda the name of this world?"

"Our world is know by many names, I suppose." Boromir confirms, looking down at his own meal. "Arda and Middle-earth are the most common."

_CLATTER_

The Gondorian looks up at the sound of the noise. Apparently, Cole dropped his fork. Or maybe it just slipped from his hands, because his fingers are curled in the air as if they still hold it.

But they are trembling. His blue eyes, his wide, wide blue eyes stare at the vase of flowers one of the servants put in the middle of the table, but he likely does not see it.

"Are you ill?" Boromir asks in concern.

"N-no. I don't, I mean. . . ." Cole swallows. His face has paled to a weak, ashy shade of gray. "Middle-earth?" He repeats hoarsely, and lifts those wide blue eyes to Boromir's crystal green. His shaking fingers close into a shaking fist, that settles somewhere in his lap.

Just then, the same doors Boromir previously entered from swing open again, and the two are joined by a rather out of breath Faramir. He pushes a hand through the blondish tresses that have plastered themselves to his forehead, his hazel eyes falling on the back of the foreigner as he smiles.

"I apologize for my lateness, but I was speaking with Evra down at the wall. . . ." He trails off when he reaches the table, and he notices the pallid color of Cole's stunned expression.

"I think our guest isn't feeling well." Boromir surmises lightly. He meets his brother's questioning gaze with a slight shrug.

Faramir's good mood deflates quite fast. "And, why is that?" He frowns, looking to Cole. "What's wrong?"

_Oh, nothing. I've just been enlightened to the fact I am eating some chicken in a dangerous medieval world that ISN'T SUPPOSED TO EXIST! HOW THE HELL WOULD _YOU _TAKE THE KIND OF NEWS?!_

But Cole doesn't say any of this. He merely glances up from his meal to reassure Faramir with a forced and pathetic smile. "I'm fine. But maybe you should sit down for this, 'cause. . . .um. . . . It might take a while to explain."

**XXX**

**Review, please!**


	8. Chapter 8

**XX 8 XX**

_I think-OW-I might have-OW-splinters in my-OW-feet-OW-FOR THE LOVE OF-!_ Tabitha sinks her teeth so deep into her tongue she tastes blood as she hobbles along after the hobbits. _Ha, ha, ha: hobbling after hobbits. . . ._ She shakes her head, even if the amusing thoughts are a welcome distraction against her sore and aching feet. And the miserable rainy weather.

And everything else.

_As soon as we get to Bree, I've got to find myself some damn shoes and decent traveling clothes!_

"Come on, Miss Tabitha!" Sam urges from up ahead. "We're almost there."

And his words are heartening to hear as the girl looks up from the river of mud running over her toes. Teeth chattering, her entire body shaking uncontrollably. She's drenched through her thin clothing down into the very marrow of her bones, and she's attempting to hold in what little heat her icing veins can offer by hugging her arms around her middle.

Which isn't working.

Her glassy eyes notice of a great, looming gate taking form in the misting darkness. Two pale lanterns glimmer like faerie lights on either side, a welcoming sight indeed for the sopping wet and incredibly miserable girl.

Pippin doubles back from the group when they stop in front of that gate. He tugs his hood further over his face and holds out a hand for the struggling Tabitha.

"It'll be alright." He assures her, with a small smile.

She smiles back and gratefully takes his hand, which fits so warm and snugly in hers. "I hope so. I mean, I'll be lucky if my swollen feet can actually fit into shoes by the time we get dried off. . . . _If_ I'm ever dry again. . . ."

They slip on the muddied ground up to the other three hobbits. As Frodo nears the door in the wide gate, he glances back over his shoulder and his eyes lock with Tabitha's. Curling ringlets are plastered to his pale, dripping face, and the lights of the lantern makes his blue gaze shine.

Like stars.

_So pretty. . . . No, no, no! What are you thinking, Lee? You can't be getting attached to these hobbits now, can you? Because you have to search Bree for Cole without them. . . . _

_But what if Cole isn't here? Then what?_

She doesn't want to think about it. If she goes any further with her new friends into the story. . . .she risks changing everything. And that isn't an option.

Tabitha forces a smile to, hopefully, dispel that concerned expression of Frodo's, but his smile back is timid. . . .scared. Or maybe anxious. It doesn't do much to assuage the girl's own desperate thoughts of how she's going to survive in Middle-earth alone, after the hobbits leave with Strider. . . .

_Who am I kidding? I can't survive here alone! Oh man. . . . I might, MIGHT be screwed._

Frodo knocks on the wooden door. Collective breaths are held, and then a surly faced gatekeeper pokes his out with a scowl. "What do you want?" He sneers in a rough accent.

Pippin's hand tightens in Tabitha's, and she squeezes comfortingly back.

"We're headed for the Prancing Pony." Frodo says. His voice sounds so small amidst the noisy din of rain and wind and creaking hinges, as the door swings open. The gatekeeper extends a lantern out to better see the travelers, his scowl deepening into something of. . . .surprise?

"Hobbits! Four of them, and, in the company of. . . .a girl? How unusual is this! What business brings you all to Bree?"

Tabitha scowls right back at the old man, as she squints against the overbearing yellow spotlight. _How 'bout you just shut the hell up and let us in? NOW WOULD BE NICE!_

"We. . . .we wish to stay at the inn." Frodo tries to speak louder, but his efforts are lost in a sudden scream wind. "Our business is our own!"

"Alright, alright. . . . I meant no offense." The gatekeeper mumbles, and he moves out of the way so the four hobbits and Tabitha can gratefully hurry in to the safe confines of the village. "Can't be too careful these days. . . .there's talk of strange folk abroad."

_Uh-huh. I'm sure._

As soon as they pass the gates, Tabitha moves to the front of their group. It's just impulsive. The hobbits are so small, and a sudden, fierce sense of protectiveness grips her heart.

_If anyone wants to mess with them, HA! I'd like to see them fare against my ninja skills! _She thinks, rubbing her hands together in preparation. . . .and mainly to keep them from going numb.

Sam looks up at her as they wander the beaten road. Passing what big folk still linger on corners and doorsteps, eyeing the hobbits with less than pleasant intentions. "It's a good thing we have you here, Miss Tabitha." He murmurs, then gazes around at the tall buildings with clear, mounting trepidation.

"No one will bother us with her around, that's for sure." Merry agrees, well, quite merrily. Despite the weather and the seedy inhabitants of Bree. "She seems to be taller than most everyone here!" He gathers confidently, and pulls his cloak tighter around him.

Tabitha grins, which is actually an impressive feat with her chattering teeth and splinter-infested feet. "You g-got that r-right!" She's on the verge of saying something else, but then there's a soft tugging on one of her blue hands. . . .

"You're going to fall ill if we don't find the inn soon." Frodo stares up at her intently, wide eyes brimming with worry. "I have some. . . ." He fishes around in one of his pockets, then pushes some glinting coins into Tabitha's palms. "Here. You need proper clothing."

Tabitha feels her heart swell so intensely in her chest it might just burst straight through her ribs. Tearing eyes gaze back at the Baggins with ever-growing fondness, and she shakes her head. "I can't take this, Frodo-"

"Please, I must insist. If you do not take them, you cannot come with us." He tells her sternly. But those blue orbs twinkle, and a lump of emotion sticks in Tabitha's throat as she nods.

It's all she can manage back in the ways of gratitude, but Frodo seems to understand her nonetheless. He tightens his hand around hers briefly before letting go.

"Look! There it is!" Pippin suddenly announces. He flings out an arm and points to an old wooden sign, swaying crooked in the breeze. And, yes, the sign has a faded image of a white horse on it.

"Go and get some clothes, Tabitha." Frodo tells the girl, and gently pushes her along. "We will save you chair, and Gandalf, I am sure, would like to meet you. He might even be able to help us find your brother! Just. . . .just don't be too long, alright?" He quickly adds.

Tabitha smiles. _Oh, what the hell. It's too damn tempting and I don't care. _She swiftly ruffles affectionate fingers through the Baggins's mop of curls, then gives the other three hobbit's a wave. "Don't worry," she chuckles at a panic-stricken Pippin. "I'll be back soon. I'm betting you won't even recognize me!"

"Do you swear?" Pippin shouts after her, as she turns and jogs down the lane.

"I swear it, young Master Took!" She yells back over a shoulder.

And the four hobbits reluctantly watch their new, strange friend disappear into the darkness. Then Merry kindly brings it to the attention of everyone in a two kilometer radius that Frodo is fighting back a blush. Which only makes the eldest hobbit flush deeper. "Come on, now." He says loudly, pretending not to hear Merry and Pippin bursting into laughter. "We mustn't keep Gandalf waiting!"

**XXX**

Maybe fifteen minutes and all of Frodo's money later (clothing is _really_ expensive here, apparently), a very self conscious Tabitha smoothes down the front of her new, dark navy jerkin and steps inside the loud, dimly lit interior of the Prancing Pony. Smoke and alcohol fumes drift round what little spokes of light can filter through the haze, and it makes the girl more uneasy than she already is as she scans the nearby faces.

Or tries to scan them, at any rate. She doesn't want to get caught staring, but glancing from person to person to person does garner some suspicion she really, _really_ doesn't need right now. So Tabitha sticks to the shadows as she wanders and searches. At least that isn't difficult to do, because the strongest point of illumination comes from a crackling log in a fireplace, in the very corner.

There are shadows everywhere to hide in.

_Come on Cole, come on! _She thinks, biting the inside of her mouth with creasing brows. _You must have realized by now that we're stuck in Middle-earth, and the only way we're ever going to find each other is if we go to some place we both recognize! You're SMART, Cole, SO WHY AREN'T YOU HERE?!_

Not that she hadn't checked every shop and house front, both on her way from the inn and then on her way back again for her brother as well. But those attempts proved useless. Of course.

Tabitha fights back the rising panic in her as best she can, but soon the smoke fumes are making her eyes sting and her lungs hurt and she's furiously blinking back tears. Hot, frustrated tears. _Who the hell am I kidding, thinking Cole would be lucky enough to land here? Arda is a huge place. . . .he could be anywhere!_

She scrubs viciously at her eyes and tries to keep her breathing slow and even. _Okay. Don't panic. Panicking will get you nowhere, despite this horribly. . . .horribly overwhelming task you've got laying ahead of you, now. _The girl draws in a gulping lungful of air, nearing the point of hyperventilation, when she hears it.

_**Lee! What's the matter with you? You're stronger than this!**_

Tabitha immediately whirls around, her heart stumbling over itself in shock. "Cole?" She chokes.

_**Come on, who else? **_Her brother laughs, sounding so warm, so close, but. . . .he's nowhere to be seen. Because she can only hear his voice in her head, but. . . .it's still _him. _So who cares if this likely means she's gone crazy?

"I don't know how I'm going to find you." The girl whispers brokenly, stumbling over her leather pleated boots into a cooler, quieter corner of the Pony. "Middle-earth is so big. . . .and I wouldn't even know where to start!"

Cole sighs. _**I know things seem pretty bad right now, but you've got to think about **__you__**, okay? I'm fine. You **__know__** that I'm fine. You can't let your friends down just because you're too busy worrying about me.**_

Tabitha bites her lip, and knocks her head gently back into the dark paneled wall. "Okay. Maybe you're right."

_**Maybe? I **__am __**right! Lee, Frodo and his friends need you. Fuck the story and go with them to Rivendell.**_

After a moment, she chuckles to herself. Good thing there's no one around to hear it. "This is really shaping up to be like some horrible 10th Walker fan fic story. You know that, don't you?"

_**Only it's not a story, idiot,**_ Cole tells her affectionately. _**And who the hell cares? I mean, do you have a choice? You know that I would **__personally_ _**kill you if you abandoned Frodo to wander Middle-earth by yourself, right?**_

"Yeah. You would." Tabitha shakes her head. "No more angsting, no more worrying, and no wandering off alone. Got it."

_**Glad to hear it, kiddo. Love ya. And I think somebody's looking for you, by the way. . . .**_

_Huh?_ "There is?" The girl wonders. She pushes away from the wall and braves another venture into open space, squinting through the haze.

There, at a small table off to one side of the Pony, sits four hobbits casting nervous glances around at the other boisterous, intimidating patrons. No Gandalf. But Tabitha already knew he wouldn't show up, which means. . . . As she walks closer to her friends, she gives a nonchalant glance into a different corner. Where a man, hooded and cloaked in shadow, smoking a pipe between his lips, is seated all by himself. Watching her friends. Watching _her._

_Oh Aragorn, don't be so dramatic,_ Tabitha smirks to herself. But, really, her heart gives a leap of excitement at the prospect of their meeting with Strider fast approaching. _Maybe this won't be so bad, after all. Maybe. _

She stops in front of the hobbits and sticks her hands on her hips, lifting her chin ridiculously high. "And what do you think _you're_ doing at _my_ table?" She demands in her best booming, Middle-earthen accent.

And it works. Merry's face pales and Pippin gives a jump in his chair, slopping ale down the front of his vest with shaking hands. Sam's hazel eyes grow wide with fear, but Frodo. . . . Initially, the Baggins is just as startled as his companions. Yet, as the seconds pass, his blue eyes narrow suspiciously at the girl in her navy jerkin, white tunic, and deep brown breeches. . . .and then they double in size when the recognition hits.

"Tabitha?" He gasps. "You. . . .you look so. . . ."

"Goodness, Miss Tabitha!" Sam grabs his chest, like his heart just might pound right out of it, and shakes his head. A relieved grin crosses his face. "You gave us quite a fright there."

"And don't you _ever_ do it again!" Pippin cries, getting up from his chair to throw his arms around her midsection.

"I'd say. That was. . . .well, I didn't like it one bit!" Merry scowls, but when Tabitha finishes her hug with Pippin, she marches right over to the blonde hobbit and kneels down beside his chair.

"I'm so sorry." She grins, patting his shoulder. "But I just couldn't help it. Please forgive me, Master Meriadoc, for I promise on pain of death I will never do it again."

Merry snorts, but he can't resist grinning back. "It _was_ kind of funny, actually. Pip, you spilled your ale on your vest."

"I did not! Most of it landed on the table!"

"You did too- I _saw_ you-!"

It's. . . .odd. How the air of the hobbits can go from anxious and reserved to their normal, infectious cheer within moments of Tabitha's reappearance.

_Have I really made that much of a difference in their lives already?_ She muses, pulling a chair up to sit next to Frodo. _Hmm. . . . _

Merry has gone up to the bar for more drinks, and Sam has reverted, somewhat, to glancing around them with worried brows.

"So. . . .Gandalf isn't here?" Tabitha looks at Frodo.

The Baggins shakes his head dismally. "Not yet."

"Well, I'm sure there's a real good reason for him not showing up, then." She shrugs. . . . _Like he's locked in a life or death battle with that nutcase, Sauramon._

And apparently she doesn't come off as indifferent as she hoped. Frodo studies her carefully with those searching blue eyes, and she finds it a little more than difficult to hold his stare.

"When you mentioned earlier. . . .about _our_ world existing in a book, in _your_ world. . . ." He begins slowly. "What, exactly, did you mean by that?"

_Oh boy. I'm surprised this didn't come up sooner. _Tabitha sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. _Then again, Frodo is an incredibly sharp hobbit. . . . _But she thinks she's saved from replying for a moment when Merry comes back with a tall, frothing drink and claims the table's attention.

"_What_ is _that?"_ Pippin gawks at the mug.

Merry grins broadly. "A pint, my friend. This is a pint."

"It comes in pints? I'm getting one!" The youngest hobbit so declares, and hurries up to the bar.

Sam and Tabitha catch each other's eye, then quickly look away, fighting back chuckles. Though the laughter in Tabitha's face dwindles away when she looks back to Frodo.

He's frowning at her. "What kinds of books are they?" He nonetheless presses. "You don't have to explain everything. . . .but, I told you the truth about how I knew you." He says quietly And the beautiful innocence in those blue orbs cuts Tabitha's heart in half. She falters and opens her mouth, only to shut it again with shame coloring her face.

"I would always tell you the truth, Frodo." She mumbles, and drops her gaze to her lap. Painfully aware of how hollow the sentence sounds, no matter how badly she means it. They haven't quite known one another long enough for there to be a whole lot of. . . .trust, between them.

Maybe some. But nowhere near enough for him to believe what she just said.

"My books. . . .they're just stories." Tabitha tries to convince him. More like she's trying to convince herself. Or her hands, because that's what she's staring at in her lap. "They aren't real like this is, right now. I mean. . . ." She stops and shakes her head miserably.

_I can't do this. I can't tell him. It's not fair. . . . Oh, he's going to be so disappointed, isn't he? _

"I'm sorry."

Frodo doesn't reply right away. And when the minutes keep ticking by, and the silence keep stretching, Tabitha feels her face burn. She squeezes her eyes shut, only to open them up in surprise when she suddenly feels a warm resting over hers.

The girl looks up, and Frodo is smiling this small, fluttering wisp of a smile at her.

"Please, don't apologize. And maybe I wouldn't understand even if you were able to tell me. But. . . .all that truly matters to me is that you're here now. I mean, just the fact that you're _real _is_. . ."_ His smile widens into something of an embarrassed grin, and he draws his hand back to his own lap. A faint blush deepens in his pale cheeks.

"Hey, I'm glad I'm here, too. Getting chased by Black Riders and almost dying aside." Tabitha jokes, pleased when she actually manages to make him laugh. _Well, that could have gotten really awkward. _

After another ten minutes of random, light conversation, Sam clears his throat.

"Mr. Frodo. . . ." The Gamgee taps his friend on the shoulder with wariness glinting in his eye. "That fellow over there has done nothing but stare at you the whole night."

Frodo frowns and he, Sam, Merry, and Tabitha all (very obviously) look over at the man hooded in darkness at his corner table.

And then, they hear this from the bar area:

". . . .a Baggins? Sure I know a Baggins- Frodo Baggins! Here's right over there-!" Pippin is announcing brightly. For the whole entire world to listen in on.

The color drains from Frodo's face as he jumps up. Tabitha follows suit, but her eyes stray towards Strider, who has magically gone and vanished from his own table.

"Wait, Mr. Frodo!" Sam calls in panic. "Where are you going?"

But he's already gone and pushed himself through the crowd to get to Pippin. And Tabitha, burning to do something but agonizingly knowing that she shouldn't, only stays rooted to the floor when one of the rowdy regulars knocks Frodo to the ground.

_Oh man. This SUCKS! And what can I do? NOTHING, at least, not without messing up the plot! Dammit. . . !_

There's a glint of gold in the air. Poor Frodo, who's eyes grow so wide in terror as he reaches up for the ring, before anyone can notice it. . . .

And then, it's touching the tip of his finger, before he's completely gone.

**XXX**

**I have no idea what I'm going to be doing about this story. I was hoping I wouldn't get tired of writing it so fast, but. . . .it's just taking me forever to update and when I do, frankly, they aren't very good. So the future of this story is kind of up in the air at the moment.**


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